


Red Thread (that will lead me home to you)

by xErised



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bearded Harry Potter, Dirty Talk, First Time, Getting Back Together, H/D Erised 2019, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Interrupted Wedding, M/M, Minor Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Post-Hogwarts, Red String of Fate, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Secret Relationship, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-01-27 11:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21391357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xErised/pseuds/xErised
Summary: It takes four years of travelling and mutual pining for Harry to realise that Malfoy is the only one for him. Of course, he has to express his feelings in the most scandalous way possible—by stopping Malfoy's very proper, very pureblood wedding.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 118
Kudos: 945
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	1. Knot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CelestialCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialCat/gifts).

> Dear apriicat, I was so excited when I found out from your LJ and AO3 that you love BTS (me too!) and your location is Portugal (I visited Lisbon this year). So, I've included Lisbon as a setting and created a BTS playlist (stated at the end of each chapter) to match each scene. I listened to these songs while I wrote. I've also sprinkled 13 BTS-related memes and Easter eggs throughout the fic, so have fun catching them all! My thanks to the mods, and also to M for her timely beta.

_Eighth Year, Hogwarts, 1998_

Malfoy sucks cock like a porn star. 

Harry groans and threads the fingers of his right hand in between soft blond strands, while his left hand reaches behind his own head, nails sinking into the armrest of the sofa. Malfoy smirks and licks up the underside of Harry’s cock and swirls his tongue around the slit. Harry swears and tilts his head backwards, pushing further into the sofa. He moans Malfoy's name, lust circulating in his bloodstream like the most addictive drug. He thrusts his hips upwards in a plea for more, and the sofa squeaks beneath Malfoy when he raises himself on his elbows and knees. Harry gasps, his sharp cry tapering into a drawn-out moan when Malfoy swallows him deeper. 

He'll never tire of this. 

It's fucking heaven, having every inch engulfed by the exquisite lushness and warmth of Malfoy's mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of Malfoy's throat with every small push of his hips. The air is heavy with Harry's pants and Malfoy's moans—he knows how much Harry likes it loud. Malfoy looks so damn good giving head—tousled blond hair, hollowed-out cheeks and half-lidded eyes smoky with sex and seduction. His satin-soft lips wrap around Harry's prick, tongue teasing him with every slow drag on his shaft, slick with pre-come and saliva.

Looking at him is enough to make Harry come. 

"So good, gonna—" Harry chokes out, his thighs clenching and his back arching off the sofa. 

Of course, this is the exact moment when Malfoy, the contrary bastard, pulls off. He licks his lips and grins. "Tell me how much you want it," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

"What the fuck, Malfoy," Harry hisses incredulously. He gestures to himself, and Malfoy's gaze travels over him, a silky smirk of satisfaction curving his mouth. Harry's cock is so hard it rests against his belly, and he supposes he should feel self-conscious at the wanton way he's lying naked on the sofa in the common room, thighs spread so wide that his left leg dangles off the back of the sofa and his right ankle rests on the carpet. 

"Always so desperate for it." Malfoy smiles, teeth glinting in the moonlight as he prowls up Harry's body until he's straddling him, his knees on either side of Harry's hips. He's saying something, but Harry's brain is short-circuiting at this new position. If he shifts just a little bit lower and raises his hips just like this—

Malfoy's words dissolve into a heady moan when Harry's cock nudges against his crease. Unable to stop himself, Harry reaches up and kneads Malfoy's arse-cheeks, spreading them to grant his prick more space to slide in between. He doesn't know how Malfoy feels about this; they've never gone all the way. 

But Malfoy certainly isn't complaining. He closes his eyes and throws his head back, exposing his gulping throat as he rocks back and forth on his knees, moving on top of Harry in perfect rhythm. "Harry. Fuck, thought about this so much…" 

Harry groans at Malfoy’s whisper of his first name, his prick stiffening further. _Has he been thinking about this too?_ His heart lifts with hope. He wants to hold him close and never let him go. He wants to sear this into his memory, memorise Malfoy's breathy gasps of his name, this intoxicating slide of skin on skin and the pressure of Malfoy's palms on his chest. 

_Are… are we gonna fuck? We need lube and prepping spells, don't we? Shit, my wand's in the dorm. Or would he want my fingers instead? Wait, am I topping?_ Amidst the fog of lust, a mounting panic begins to set in. They're both equally inexperienced—

A peal of laughter rings out from the other side of the portrait hole. Malfoy's eyes fly open, and they freeze at the approaching footsteps and voices. Harry yanks Malfoy down on top of him. Even though it's late, it isn't uncommon for students to return from the library at this hour after studying for the upcoming N.E.W.T.s. Anyone could walk in on them, and this only makes things more exciting. 

They wait with bated breath as the chatter fades away. Malfoy stares at him, before pushing up and away from him. Harry blinks, uncertain. The interruption broke the moment, but he tries anyway. "Just now, we…" 

Flustered, Malfoy lunges forward and shuts him up with a kiss so intense that Harry forgets his sentence. When they pull apart, Malfoy's eyes glimmer with intent, his control clicking back into place. He drapes himself on top of Harry and shoots him a coquettish wink. Renewed lust fires in Harry's system, and he gazes at Malfoy, his chest heaving and lips parted in anticipation. 

With a smile of a sinner, Malfoy snakes a hand down between them.

Harry groans and begins to thrust into his palm.

"All of them want you," Malfoy murmurs. At that silky-smooth, baritone voice, Harry wraps his arms around Malfoy's neck and ruts against him harder. "Your worshippers. Your silly fan club. But it's me, isn't it? It's always been me." He releases a low, mocking laugh, his thumb teasing Harry's sensitive slit. "When you sit here with your friends, I want you to think of this. Our little secret, how good I'm making you—" His words break off into a strangled moan when Harry wraps a hand around his prick, his other hand trailing to his arse, squeezing it.

"Just me. Only me." Malfoy grits out between clenched teeth. He bats Harry’s hand away and releases his cock, only to rest his elbows on either side of Harry’s head, trapping him. They're grinding now, each heated push and roll of their hips increasing their pleasure to a fever-pitch as they chase their orgasms.

"Just you. Only you," Harry repeats in jagged gasps, starbursts of ecstasy igniting in him like fireworks. "Gonna, I'm gonna—" 

"Say my name, fucking say it—" 

"Draco, fuck yes, Draco, come for me, come all over me—" 

A possessive gleam flares in grey eyes, and Malfoy hisses, a growl building in the back of his throat. He sinks his teeth into the side of Harry's neck and sucks hard, leaving another love bite that Harry will Glamour away tomorrow morning. 

Harry comes first. He spurts all over Malfoy's hand, his stomach clenching and mind hazy with the spine-tingling pleasure. Malfoy stares at him, and then cries out his name, shooting his load on Harry's hips and cock. Their synchronised breaths emerge hot and heavy, and Harry tucks two fingers under Malfoy's chin. 

"Draco," he murmurs, capturing his lips in a soft, gentle kiss. 

Malfoy stiffens, but relaxes and reciprocates, although it lacks the intensity of their previous kisses. "Potter," he mumbles. 

_So it's back to Potter and Malfoy again._

Harry frowns and withdraws at once. Stung, he turns away from Malfoy, jaw hardening. Malfoy clears his throat and stands up, going to his pyjamas on the floor and rustling about in them for his wand to clean them up. He puts on his clothes and glances at Harry, who is still stretched out on the sofa and looking at him. 

"Well, goodnight," Malfoy mutters. He shuffles from foot to foot, before nodding at Harry and heading back to their dorms. 

Harry rubs his eyes and releases a long sigh, brimming with feeling. Biting his lower lip, he rests his palm on the armrest, on the warmth of Malfoy's leftover heat. 

He wishes he was holding his hand instead. 

He knows there's no use hoping for anything more, but…

Sometimes, it feels as if Malfoy fancies him back too. 

His shoulders slumping, Harry scrubs at his face in frustration. As usual, Malfoy will be in the loo, brushing his teeth. And then he'll enter their dorms and drop off to sleep, while Harry will toss and turn, his mind consumed with Malfoy.

Something empty and cavernous rattles inside Harry's chest. He feels strangely vulnerable, sitting naked in the common room with Malfoy's love bites all over his skin. "Fuck," he mutters, pulling himself together. _I'm not gonna mope when it means nothing to him._ He outs on his pyjamas and trudges up to the dorm shared with the other eighth-year boys. Harry tiptoes a circuit around the room, making sure that everyone is asleep.

Relieved, he takes off his glasses and climbs into bed, gazing at Malfoy's empty bed beside his. Harry rolls over, training his eyes on the door. His body is still warm, and he runs his palms up his chest, relishing the feel of Malfoy's handprints scattered on his skin. _Maybe I’ll hold him tonight. Crawl into bed with him and hold him for a bit. If he looks at me later, I'll do it._

He doesn't have to wait long before the door clicks open. Malfoy steals into the room, passing him without a backwards glance and slipping into bed, his body turned away from Harry. 

_Well, there’s my answer._ Harry stares at his back for a long moment. At the rush of longing scrawled all over his heart, he frowns and turns around, facing Ron instead. 

In return, his best mate lets out a tremendous snore. 

Harry sighs and lies on his back, looking at the ceiling in disappointment. _It'll never work out with Malfoy. Wrong timing, different priorities._ He's told himself this countless times in the hopes of wiping out his inconvenient feelings for Malfoy. Merlin knows they've fought over this so many times, but he can't stop what his heart wants. 

He can't get enough of this sneaking around, the sudden burst of adrenaline, followed by the addictive, mind-numbing pleasure. He can't get enough of Malfoy's mouth, his cock, his body, his moans.

_"I'm going to get you in trouble someday,"_ Malfoy snarled last November when they first started fooling around. They were in an abandoned classroom, Malfoy crowding him against the teacher's table, his deft fingers unfastening Harry's jeans, tugging his pants down. He sank to his knees, lips already parted.

And Harry only wants more.

* * *

"Did you see what Binns did?"

Harry's laugh cuts off when the doors of the Great Hall swing open, revealing Malfoy, Parkinson and Zabini. 

They're the only eighth-year Slytherins to return. 

The din of Sunday lunch, along with the lively conversation about Binns at the Gryffindor table, fades away as Harry stares at Malfoy. He's dressed in Muggle clothes—a white T-shirt, tight navy-blue jeans that accentuate his long legs and hug his arse in just the right way, and red high-top Converse trainers. He's swapped his silver studs to black round earrings. When he lifts a hand to sweep his hair back, Harry spots two leather bracelets—one black, one brown—on his left wrist. 

Harry’s mouth goes dry. This is the exact get-up that makes him hot and bothered, and Malfoy is all too aware of this.

They haven't been meeting up as often, what with N.E.W.T.s starting next week. This is Malfoy's way of getting Harry's attention, wearing something like that and sauntering into the Great Hall thirty minutes late for lunch and ignoring Harry’s gaze. 

Since the start of the school year, it's obvious that Malfoy is going through some sort of rebellious phase to distance himself from his upbringing. His Muggle clothes, piercings, his occasional references to Muggle pop culture, along with…

… sleeping with Harry.

Harry's heart hurts. 

He knows he should look away, but he can't, especially when Andrew Smith, a sixth-year Ravenclaw struts over to Malfoy and engages him in conversation. Harry's fist tightens around his fork when Malfoy flashes Smith a flirtatious smile and touches his elbow. A stab of jealousy, so fierce and sudden that it takes Harry by surprise, flares in his chest, and he glares at Smith.

When Malfoy removes his hand, he tilts his head to slant a sly look at Harry, as if aware of him watching. Harry looks away at once, meeting Pansy Parkinson’s eyes. Her lips hike up in wry amusement, and she holds his gaze over the top of her glass as she drinks, her piercing eyes giving nothing away. 

Unease stirs in his stomach. _How much does she know?_

"Harry, your elbow is in your pasta." 

At Hermione's words, he turns away from Parkinson. His friends are staring at him, some with concern and confusion, but Ron and Hermione simply look resigned. He glances down; his elbow is indeed in his plate of spag bol. He mutters his thanks and casts a Cleaning Charm on his jumper.

The rest of lunch passes by uneventfully, and Harry makes it a point to prevent his gaze from straying to the Slytherin table until Malfoy takes his leave. He catches Harry's eye and tips his head towards the door, before disappearing from the Hall. 

Harry counts to sixty before giving some flimsy excuse, throwing his napkin down and hurrying out. He continues onwards down the long corridor, pausing when he spots Malfoy appearing at the end. Malfoy veers left, turning a corner. 

Anticipation simmers in Harry's blood at the hunt. He grins, picking up the pace until he's running. He chases Malfoy through two more corridors, following him into an empty classroom. Breathless, Harry slams the door closed and wraps a hand around Malfoy's wrist, pulling him into his arms in a smooth, fluid motion.

"You know how hot this gets me," Harry growls, sliding his hands into the back pockets of Malfoy’s jeans, giving his arse a hard squeeze. 

"Good. Because I want your attention," Malfoy replies, his voice equally husky. He trails his palm down Harry's left shoulder and abdomen, until his fingers are grazing Harry's prick through his trousers. "I want it all the time."

Harry’s breath hitches. "What did Smith want?" 

The question tumbles out before he can stop it. 

Malfoy chuckles. "Nothing important. Don't worry, Potter." He drags his fingertips along Harry’s hardening cock. "He's not you."

Malfoy unfastens Harry’s trousers and works his hand into his pants. Harry rests his forehead on the other boy’s shoulder, his own hand stroking Malfoy’s hip. They’ll get each other off yet again, with Malfoy's touch overpowering Harry's rational thinking every single time. They'll pretend that there's nothing between them, but with every encounter, Harry's aching heart says otherwise, and he doesn't know how much more he can take— 

"Come away with me."

At Harry's words, Malfoy goes very still. 

Harry’s heart sinks. They've argued about this so many times, and it's never ended well, so why would it be different now? 

_Maybe it's because of how gently he kissed my forehead last week, how he cried out my name when I sucked him off late that night at the Courtyard, how he touches me as if I… I actually mean something more to him._

Harry kicks at the ground in disappointment when Malfoy shoves him away. "Let's not spoil a good thing," he says stiffly.

Harry huffs and buttons up his trousers. When Malfoy glances at the door, Harry stands directly in front of him, blocking his escape. 

Malfoy scowls. 

Harry sighs. "I mean it. You know I've been talking to Kingsley, and we drafted a rough contract two days ago by owl. I'll be officially employed by the Ministry after N.E.W.T.s and I’ll have my overseas postings then. I could take you along. Go wherever you want to go. Any country. Just the two of us." His words emerge in a hurried rush, and he hates how apparent it is that he's thought about this so much. "We could leave Britain and carve out a new life. Away from everything and everyone,” he says, sweeping an arm out. 

Being cloistered away and protected within the four walls of Hogwarts is all fine and good, but it's going to be drastically different when Harry leaves. All the suffocating adoration and worship, the blinding camera lights flashing in his face, paparazzi dogging his every move, the pressure still heaped on his shoulders… 

No, he can’t stay. 

"Take me along?" Malfoy sneers, throwing Harry's words back at him. "Like I'm some sort of… kept woman? You know very well I can't leave Britain because of my parents! They have expectations for me as the only Malfoy heir, and I can't disappoint them anymore!" He narrows his eyes. "The Ministry is desperate to employ you. In fact, I won't be surprised if they created a special position just for you, their dear Golden Boy!" 

Harry bunches his fists, anger twisting in his gut. He hates the nicknames that the media showers on him, especially when said in that mocking tone, and Malfoy knows that. They always know the fastest way to push each other's buttons, both in and out of bed. Adrenaline of a different sort storms through Harry's veins, tugging at the familiar undercurrent of heat crackling between them. 

"Oh, really? What's left for you here? Besides your misguided notion of familial duties, your ill father and demanding mother? What future do you have after Hogwarts?" Harry snaps, enjoying the way Malfoy swallows doubtfully. 

A glint of fury sparks in grey eyes. "At least I have family!" Malfoy shouts, taking a step forward. 

Harry rears back as if slapped. 

Malfoy clamps his hand to his mouth. His eyes widen in genuine alarm, and he ducks his head, dropping his gaze. "I didn't…" 

_What the hell am I thinking? There's no future for us. Only heartbreak and pain._

"You know what?"

Even though it is Harry's own monotonous voice echoing in the classroom, it doesn't feel as if it's coming from him. He hangs his head in resignation, dull eyes trained on Malfoy's shoes. It’s easier to say this when he’s not looking at his face. He feels numb, as if he’s lost control of everything.

"I’m done." 

_What? What are you saying, Harry? Shut up, shut the fuck up!_

Malfoy releases a shaky laugh of disbelief. "You can't be serious. You’re done? Everyone wants to get laid, and—"

Harry jerks his head up in anger. "Is that all I mean to you? Just sex?" 

A long, loaded pause. 

"What are you implying, Potter?" Malfoy asks in an even tone, his features carefully blank. 

Harry doesn't know what to say to that. All he knows is that it's time for him to walk away first. 

With steel lacing up his spine, he turns sharply on his heel and stalks out of the classroom, ignoring Malfoy’s call. His mind is still scrambling to catch up with this turn of events when he descends a staircase, tripping on the last step. _Did we just… did we break up?_

But to break up, they must've been in a relationship in the first place.

Harry laughs without humour. He slumps against the wall and removes his glasses. He rubs his face and sighs, needing some fresh air to clear his mind. 

He wears his glasses and heads towards the Great Lake. It’s a lazy, lovely May afternoon, complete with a periwinkle-blue sky and fluffy cotton-candy clouds. A welcoming breeze and the sunshine soaking into his skin calms Harry down somewhat. He slows to a stroll, and the tight coil of hurt and defeat thrumming within him eases with every step. There are many students around—mostly from the lower years—taking advantage of the warm weather, gossiping or playing games on the grass while most of his classmates are probably at the library.

Except for two of them.

Harry stops in his tracks at the sight of Ron and Hermione sitting beneath a large tree, immersed in conversation. He doesn’t know if he should approach them in his frazzled state of mind. He's about to turn around, when Ron looks up and waves. Hermione twists around and matches Ron’s smile. 

Despite himself, Harry grins, his heart lightening. He joins them. Ron leans back on the tree trunk, his gaze appraising. Hermione arranges her skirt primly over her knees. "Are you alright, Harry? You've been acting strange recently." 

Harry nods, putting Malfoy out of his mind. "Just exam stress." 

"Yeah, mate," Ron pipes up. "Thought you were gonna tell us that you finally got together with—" 

"Yes, the exams are certainly getting to everyone," Hermione says loudly, drowning out Ron, who glances at her and raises an eyebrow.

Harry changes the subject. "I sorted things out with Kingsley. It’s confirmed. I'm gonna join the Ministry after Hogwarts." 

One of the things that Harry really enjoyed was leading Dumbledore's Army—the teaching of practical Defence magic and the sense of accomplishment when his friends improved. He mentioned this to Kingsley over the summer, along with his need to leave Britain, and Kingsley suggested a suitable career. It’s a position in the International Relations branch of the DMLE, where the primary job scope was to instruct and train different Auror-equivalent teams around the world, on top of providing intelligence and acting as a consultant in British-linked cases.

Ron leans forward. "That's brilliant! Do you know where you'll be off to?"

"Not yet. He'll brief me on the specifics of the job first. I'll probably spend my first year undergoing training, though." 

"I'm really happy for you," Hermione says, patting his hand. Her smile dims. "Well, at least we'll have the next few weeks together." 

Harry recalls the stricken expression on Malfoy's face in the classroom. He swallows, keeping his tone light and his features neutral. "I dunno, Hermione. I might leave earlier than expected. I might not even stay for the Leaving Ball." 

Just the thought of Malfoy, decked out in his best dress robes, dancing with someone else, is enough to swamp Harry in a wave of jealousy and anger. 

"Oh." Hermione's face falls, while Ron frowns, his brows knitting together in question. "You're really leaving us, aren't you?" she says, her voice wavering in a tell-tale manner. "You'll be all alone, so far away. Without us." 

Emotion thickens in Harry's throat, and he dredges up a weak smile. "Then I'll just have to find a giant troll to defeat, yeah?" 

"I'll miss you so much," Hermione says, her face crumpling in sorrow and her words dissolving into tears. She lunges towards him and pulls him into a hug. He wraps his arms around her at once, inhaling the minty scent of her shampoo and the feel of her curls against his cheek. Behind her, Ron nods at him.

Harry nods back and buries his head into her neck. Her tears seep through his shirt, and he pats her hair, a shard of sadness cutting through him. "Hey, don't be silly. I'll write, yeah? You’ll come and visit me and I'll bring you around. We’ll go sight-seeing and eat at the best restaurants."

Hermione sniffles and pulls away. "We’ll hold you to that promise."

Harry doesn’t think about Malfoy for the rest of the day. He enjoys the sunshine and the company of his two best friends, just like old times.

That night, Malfoy wakes him up again. He laces their fingers together, looks deep into his eyes, whispers Harry’s name and runs his thumb across Harry’s lower lip in a heart-stoppingly intimate gesture. 

Harry lets Malfoy tug him out of bed. 

He lets Malfoy throw him down to the sofa, lets him slide his pyjama bottoms off, lets him slot himself between Harry's thighs and suck him off. 

With his fingers tangled in blond hair and dazed eyes staring at the ceiling, Harry tries to numb his heart, to compartmentalise his emotions like what Malfoy is capable of. It's just something physical. Nothing else. 

But their kisses are even more passionate and desperate than usual, going straight to Harry's heart, made even worse when Malfoy climbs on top of him and lets out a pained sound, a cross between a sigh and a sob. 

"We can't stop, don't you understand?" he chokes out, peppering Harry's face with kisses so delicate and light that Harry wishes he could bottle each one up and lock it forever in his bejewelled box of a breaking heart. Each kiss is like an apology, and Malfoy's nails sink deeper into his skin, his craving for Harry trembling in his touch. "I can't stop, Harry." 

Harry lives for the times when they're Harry and Draco to each other.

Malfoy kisses his way down his body, his tongue hitting that sweet spot on his cock. Harry cries out his name when his orgasm hits, flooding him with a tidal wave of pleasure so intense that stars spark at the borders of his vision, soothing the perpetual hunger for Malfoy gnawing away at him. 

Afterwards, he holds Malfoy close, committing his vanilla scent, the warmth of his body and the rhythm of his breathing to memory. 

This time, Malfoy lets him. 

They lie naked on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, each lost in the maze of their own thoughts. Harry would give anything to have this for the rest of his life, but they can't. They're like a malfunctioning, high-speed train that has already left the station, bound for a tragedy of a train-wreck.

But they can't stop.

* * *

"You ever think about sex with me?" 

Harry freezes in mid-kiss at the question. After a moment, he pulls back to regard Malfoy with eyes wide in disbelief. 

Malfoy drops his gaze to Harry’s chest. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Like, all the way. Do you?" 

The playful, indulgent mood of the night melts away, replaced by something more loaded and significant. Uncertain grey eyes peer up at Harry underneath a fringe of tousled blond hair, and Harry's heart stutters for a second. 

Malfoy stiffens and presses his lips together. He waves a dismissive hand in the air, looking away. "Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"Yeah," Harry blurts out. "Yeah, I do. I think about it all the time.” He pulls Malfoy closer and plants a chaste kiss on his cheek. Malfoy relaxes, the tension of his shoulders unwinding. "I didn't know if you wanted that, so I… er… well…” 

"When you think about it, how do we… do it?" 

Harry hasn’t seen Malfoy this tongue-tied and unsure of himself. He finds it endearing and comforting, as if they're both navigating in equally unfamiliar waters. He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter to me. I want it to be good for you." 

“Stop being so damn selfless.” Malfoy’s eyes flare with lust and impatience. "I don't think you understand the question, Potter," he drawls. He threads his fingers in Harry’s hair and tugs his head back, licking from the base of his throat up to the bottom of his chin, making Harry even harder. He murmurs the question into Harry's neck, his voice so low and husky that a shiver ripples down Harry's spine. "What do you think of that makes you come the hardest?" 

Harry doesn’t need to think twice. "It's when I'm fucking you hard into the bed, fucking you so good that you forget your name," he says, punctuating his words with a squeeze of Malfoy’s arse. 

Malfoy's breath catches, and he kisses his trembling words into Harry's skin. "Fuck me, then. Take me to bed and fuck me 'til the only name I remember is yours." 

Harry's cock throbs. 

Malfoy begins to button his shirt. "Room of Requirement. We obviously can't go to the dorms,” he says briskly. 

_Christ, he's planned it out._ Harry quickly makes himself presentable, too. They leave the classroom and take the quieter route, running into no one; it's too late for the younger students to be out, plus the post-N.E.W.T.s celebrations in the dorms are probably winding down. His heart racing with excitement and surprise, Harry presses the heel of his palm on his erection briefly as they hurry to their destination. 

Malfoy takes the lead, walking past the Room three times. When the door appears, Harry wrenches it open and they crash through it, only to be greeted with an enormous bed. It's the biggest four-poster Harry has seen; big enough for four people, but what's even more surprising is the sprinkling of red rose petals, a contrast to the pristine white sheets. Even though there are no windows, the gauzy bed curtains ripple, as if welcoming them. 

"I didn't ask for the petals," Malfoy says. 

The two identical cupboards at the right side of the Room intrigue Harry. He walks towards them, Malfoy behind him. Harry opens one. He steps back in astonishment at the wide selection of silk blindfolds, handcuffs, Slytherin ties, leather restraints, and Merlin, is that a… a paddle?

He turns startled eyes on Malfoy, who has gone a lovely shade of pink. Malfoy jumps into action, slotting himself between Harry and the cupboard. He grabs both doors to close them, but Harry elbows him away, snatching up a book and glancing at the cover. 

_How to Discipline your Gryffindor._

Harry stares.

Malfoy makes a strange, wheezing sound and yanks it away from him. He tosses it into the cupboard, shoves Harry away and slams the cupboard shut. He presses his back against the doors, his cheeks still tinged with a rosy blush.

Harry rubs the back of his neck. "I didn't know you liked that," he mutters, interrupting the charged silence.

"I didn't ask for all of that," Malfoy insists, his gaze lowering to Harry’s shoes and his voice becoming smaller. “I mean, sometimes I do think about using that on you, especially when you get bloody annoying, but…” 

Harry snickers, amused. 

Malfoy frowns in indignation. "Think it's funny, do you?" He points at the other cupboard. "I wonder what's in yours. Bet it's even kinkier, full of whips and chains and… and sexy costumes, I reckon!" 

Before Harry can come up with a rebuttal, Malfoy jerks open the second cupboard, taunt wilting on his lips at the sight of the empty cupboard. “Nothing?" he yelps. "Nothing at all?" 

Harry shrugs, stepping behind Malfoy and resting his hands on his hips. He presses forward, making his erection known. Malfoy arches his back, pushing his arse on Harry's prick. "You're more than enough," Harry murmurs, undoing Malfoy's belt buckle and slowly sliding it through his belt loops. "I don't need anything else, although I definitely wouldn't mind being… disciplined," he says, practically purring the last word. 

"Yeah?" Malfoy says around a breathless whisper, his eyes following his belt as Harry drops it onto the floor. 

"I'm open to exploring. By the way, I'd much rather prefer silk to leather," Harry says, rubbing his palms up and down the curve of Malfoy’s arse. "Particularly the red silk ribbons."

Malfoy tilts his face towards him, a smirk playing on his lips. "I'll keep that in mind." 

Harry motions to the first cupboard with his chin. "Let's save that for next time." He kisses Malfoy's shoulder. "Just you and me tonight, yeah?" 

Eager to keep things on track, he leads Malfoy to the bed. He's about to kiss him when Malfoy spies a book on the nightstand. Equally distracted by the title—_Useful Spells and Positions for Beginners to Anal Sex_—Harry reads the table of contents along with Malfoy. 

"Page fifteen," Malfoy mutters. Harry glances at the corresponding page on the table—Cleaning Charms. "Excuse me," Malfoy says, kissing him on the temple and disappearing into another room that Harry assumes is the loo.

Harry plops down on the bed, his eyes roaming to the variety of jars and tubes of lubricant on the nightstand. He twists open a red jar, sniffs it and gags at the cloying scent of strawberry. He flicks through the selection, finally settling on a tube of clear, non-scented lube and putting it on the bed.

Harry toes off his trainers and socks. His hands hover on the hem of his shirt. _Should I take off my clothes, or is that too eager?_ He bites the inside of his cheek, unsure. Instead, he pulls the duvet back and smooths the sheets. _Should I be in a sexy pose?_ He lies on his side with his elbow bent and left palm propping his head up. He stays there for a moment, before sighing and flopping face-down. _This is stupid._ He sits on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs as he waits, fingers tapping out a rhythm to ease the pent-up energy rattling in him.

There's the flush of a toilet and a tap running. A barefoot Malfoy emerges, wearing his shirt and pants, carrying his shoes and his trousers flung over his shoulder. Harry blinks rapidly, before shucking his jeans and tossing them to the floor. His mouth goes dry when Malfoy licks his lips and holds his hungry gaze as he strips naked. He moves closer, standing between Harry's open thighs. 

"Hello," Malfoy whispers with a seductive smile, his lashes fluttering.

"Hey," Harry croaks, looking up at him. He slides his palms up Malfoy's thighs, his touch grazing the soft hairs. He reaches for Malfoy's arse, squeezing his cheeks. Just the thought of what they’re gonna do tonight, bloody hell…

Malfoy's cock twitches. He takes off Harry's glasses and places them on the nightstand. He loves doing that, loves the fact that he's one of the few people close enough to Harry to take them off. Harry tugs his T-shirt and boxers off, and Malfoy stares at his cock with bright and glossy eyes, desire scrawled all over his features.

Malfoy gets into bed, leaning back on the large pillows. He grins, pulls Harry down on top of him and draws him into a kiss, his breath smelling like mint.

Harry withdraws. _Shit, should I have brushed my teeth too?_ He buries his head into Malfoy's neck, huffing out a breath. _Nope, s'alright. Thank Merlin I skipped the onion soup for dinner._

"Potter?"

_Stop worrying and enjoy it._ Harry sweeps Malfoy up into a slow, simmering kiss full of heated sighs, teasing tongues and wandering touches. The kiss intensifies when he lowers his hips, pressing their pricks together. Malfoy moans at the sensation, and Harry tilts his head and deepens the kiss as they grind against each other, cocks sliding and their movements increasing in urgency with each roll of their hips. 

Harry doesn't need to look to know that Malfoy's cock is absolutely gorgeous—long and so responsive, just like Malfoy himself. The sounds he makes when Harry sucks him off… 

His mouth waters at the thought. 

He kisses his way down Malfoy's neck, his chest… 

…only to pause when Malfoy makes a noise. Malfoy lifts his head from the pillow and peers down at him. "What are you doing?" 

"Gonna blow you.” 

"No, if you do, I'm going to come." 

"Nothing wrong with that, yeah?" Harry runs his lips down the side of Malfoy's waist. "Wanna please you." 

"I know, and you always suck me so good, but I…" Malfoy motions for him to sit up. "I want to come only when you're inside me."

Fuck. Lust surges in Harry, and he briefly squeezes the base of his own cock. 

"Keep talking like that, and we're both not gonna last," he says, grabbing the lube. His blood is pounding in his ears, his cock throbbing as he coats his fingers. His hand holding the vial tips over too much—probably because of nerves—and lube flows into his palm, dripping onto Malfoy's stomach. 

Malfoy jerks. "Cold," he hisses, removing the lube with his arm. 

"Sorry," Harry says. He looks down at his cupped hand, at the small puddle of lube gathered in the centre of his palm. "Um." He looks at the nightstand, his cheeks warm with embarrassment. He’s tempted to wipe his hand on the sheets, but Malfoy might find that too graceless. "D'you think there'd be tissues there?" 

Malfoy twists around to open the drawers, and Harry inwardly thanks the Room when he withdraws a box of tissues. Harry quickly wipes away the excess lube, leaving only his fingers coated. Malfoy tucks a pillow beneath his hips, and Harry climbs on top, slanting his body to the side. He kisses Malfoy hard, hoping to sweep away the awkwardness of the lube incident with a good snog. His hand goes between Malfoy's legs, a finger rubbing his rim. Malfoy spreads his thighs more, giving Harry more space. 

The thought of kissing Malfoy there, that secret, private place that no one else has ever touched is enough to drive Harry’s anticipation to fever-pitch. He's heard the boys talking about something like that, about licking girls there and how much they like it. _Next time. I'll lick him there next time, if he wants that._

Malfoy pulls back, his breaths quick. "Go slow. Gentle." 

Harry nods, his stomach fluttering. "Tell me if it's too much." He tucks his left arm under the back of Malfoy's neck to support himself and to hold him close. He kisses Malfoy briefly, and then eases his finger in, working past the tight ring of muscle. He's halfway in when Malfoy bears down, scrunching his eyes shut and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip.

Harry withdraws at once. 

Malfoy opens his eyes and shakes his head, anxious. "Don't stop. I just need to get used to this. I don't want you to—" 

"Not stopping. We'll go slow. No rush. Got the whole night," Harry soothes, smoothing Malfoy's hair back and kissing him slowly, sweetly until he relaxes, nervous tension seeping out of his body. 

Harry tries again. This time, he manages to slide his entire finger in. He moves it in and out, studying Malfoy's expression to know when to push and ease off, until Malfoy's hips are rocking together with him. When he asks for more in a soft, breathy voice, Harry adds a second finger, going even slower. 

It's when his fingers brush past a particular spot that Malfoy cries out, his body seizing up. He clenches around Harry, the soles of his feet digging into the bed. 

"Did I hurt you?" Harry asks. Alarmed, he withdraws. 

"The opposite, the fucking opposite. Salazar, Harry, touch me there again,” Malfoy pleads, grabbing Harry’s hand and putting it between his thighs. "I don't know what you did, but Merlin, do it again."

His eyes wide in wonder, Harry repeats the motion, although he has to explore to find the right spot. Amazed, he gasps when pleasure ripples through Malfoy again. "Here?" 

Malfoy groans. "Remember that, where it is, 'cause I'm gonna come so hard when you fuck me there.” His words spiral up into a loud cry when Harry pushes in again, a little harder and faster. "Just like that, don't stop. One more, c'mon, one more.” 

Fuck, look at Malfoy, at his slender, pale body, once so tight and rigid, now so pliable and relaxed, so hungry for more. His limbs are splayed apart, hips moving in hypnotising circles, riding Harry's three fingers. He's so ready, so fucking ready to take Harry’s cock. 

"Shit.” Harry cups his own leaking prick and squeezes his eyes shut. He sucks in a harsh breath, trying to summon some semblance of control. "Fuck, Draco. This is so hot. You're so hot." 

Malfoy flings an arm out, patting the bed for the lube and tosses it to Harry, who wastes no time. He slicks himself all the way to the root. 

"Look at you," Malfoy whispers. He touches his own throat, glazed-over eyes glued to Harry's cock. With a slow smile, Harry indulges in a wank, pumping his hips slow and steady, the head of his cock sliding through the circle of his hand. Lube drips off his prick, and Malfoy's lips part in desire. They stare at each other, and Harry drinks in the sight of Malfoy spread out in bed like this, just for him. And this is when it truly hits him, this immensity of the moment, coupled with this thundering lust and emotion so strong and encompassing that it takes his breath away. 

They've never fooled around in a bed before, always kissing and groping in classrooms or tucked-away alcoves, their secret relationship never to see the light of day, but doing this in a bed… 

It's as if they're a proper couple. 

Harry's heart twinges.

There's the Sectumsempra scar, an ugly slash of a knitted scar from the top of Malfoy's chest, ending near his belly-button. When Harry first saw it, he kissed every inch in repentance and regret while Malfoy writhed beneath him, hands grabbing his hair.

_"Your scar, it burns. Your mark on me, forever. You burn me, Harry, and I love every second."_

Malfoy lifts his legs and tucks his arms under the back of his knees, exposing himself. "Don't make me wait, Harry. Need you so bad.” He purses his lips in impatience, eyes still trained on Harry's prick. "Now, right now.” 

His mouth quirking up in a sly grin and his nerve endings stirring, Harry scoots closer to Malfoy and positions himself on his knees. He holds his prick and rubs it along Malfoy's crease, the tip of his tongue touching his upper lip. "Feel that? Feel how hard I am for you. Never been this hard for anyone." 

Malfoy growls in frustration. "Stop teasing and fuck me, you fucking bastard," he hisses, his words melting in a loud groan when Harry pushes in. The sensation is incredible and entirely indescribable, so much more erotic than getting sucked off, with Malfoy so warm and tight around him. Harry swears and grasps the base of his cock as he presses forward to keep his orgasm at bay. 

"Ah.” Malfoy grimaces, clenching around Harry. "Ah," he says again, this time with feeling. He grits his teeth, fists his hands and scrunches his eyes shut. Harry looks down; Malfoy’s erection is flagging. 

Although he’s only half in, Harry withdraws. 

"I want it, I really do," Malfoy insists. He frowns at himself and wanks in short, desperate strokes, keen on showing Harry just how much he wants it.

"I know," Harry says, gently pushing Malfoy’s hand away. "I'll go slow. Make you feel good real soon, hit that spot you like so much." He lines his prick up again and applies the same strategy that he did with his fingers; pushing in and out, before plunging deeper and easing out again, until he's entirely engulfed, his throbbing cock deep in Malfoy. It's fucking brilliant, with Malfoy feeling like the most luxurious, sensual silk wrapped around his cock. “Let go,” Harry says, gesturing to Malfoy’s arms. “Want your legs. Around me.” 

Grey eyes gaze up at him intently as Malfoy hooks his ankles behind Harry’s back and lets his hands fall to the bed. Malfoy nudges the pillow under his hips, and they gasp at the slight change in angle. Harry exhales, his arms trembling with excitement and the effort of holding himself up. _I'm in Draco, fuck, I'm balls-deep in him and I’ve never felt anything like this._

He stays still, allowing Malfoy to get used to him, although he’s eager to start fucking him proper. 

"All in?" Malfoy asks breathlessly. 

"Yeah. Alright?"

Malfoy nods. "Stay there. Wanna memorise how you feel. So thick, so full…" He closes his eyes, savouring the moment. Harry pulls out an inch and thrusts back into him, eliciting a moan from Malfoy, whose cock begins to fill. "So good. Fuck, Harry, so good."

Harry chuckles shakily, kissing Malfoy's shoulder. "It's pretty good for me too."

"I bet." Malfoy smiles, eyes flashing and smirk sharpening. "Know what I want?" 

"What?"

Malfoy flutters his lashes, smouldering up at him, and Harry's heart does a silly little somersault. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him forward until his elbows land on the bed. Malfoy whispers into his ear, his voice as intimate and promising as the rustling bedsheets. "Fuck me until I can still feel you in me tomorrow morning."

_Fucking hell._

His heart racing, and a tingling shiver rippling through him, Harry props himself up on his hands and begins to thrust, hips rocking back and forth. Malfoy is a feast for his senses: his vanilla scent, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the Room, jacking up Harry's pleasure to greater heights. The addictive warmth around his cock is overwhelming, and Malfoy looks so fucking good—blond hair on the pillow, that familiar flush building on his chest, which will eventually spread to his neck, even his cheeks, when he finally comes. His rosebud lips, so lush and plump as he cries out Harry’s name, and all of that glorious pale skin on display, just for Harry, only for Harry. 

He's already burnt this image into his memory. 

He sinks in especially deep and straightens up, bending Malfoy’s left leg over his own shoulder and resting his right leg on the bed. He continues to thrust, Malfoy’s face crumpling in bliss at the new position. "Harry, there, fuck," he gasps, his eyes rolling back into his head and his toes curling. "No, you missed it, ah, yes, there, right there—"

Lust storms through Harry’s blood, his grip tightening on Malfoy’s thigh as he hits that spot over and over. Sweat gathers in his lower back, his body going warm all over. Malfoy trembles like earlier, and Harry clenches his teeth at the familiar sensation of his balls drawing up, the intense pressure signifying one of the best, if not the best orgasm—

"Fuck!" he exclaims, pulling out and squeezing his prick, his breaths hot and heavy. "Was gonna come. Not yet." He closes his eyes briefly, waiting for the jagged edge of his impending orgasm to fade. 

"S'okay," Malfoy mumbles. "I was gonna come soon. Too good." He tugs Harry down, drawing him into a giddy kiss. Before he knows it, Malfoy rolls them around and pushes him onto the bed. He grins and climbs on top of Harry, straddling him just like that night at the common room.

"Let me take care of you now.” Malfoy smooths Harry’s hair back and caresses his cheek, fingertips trailing down the sweat tracking the sides of his face. Malfoy begins to roll his hips, rubbing Harry's cock along his crease. When the head of his cock catches on his rim, Malfoy moans. He rises up, and Harry holds his own cock steady, his eyes wide as he watches Malfoy lower his hips, easing Harry’s cock into him.

Harry groans and fists his hands into the sheets. 

His lips pushed into a pout, Malfoy rides him, slow and sweet. He places his hands on Harry's chest to brace himself as he bounces up and down, driving Harry wild with lust. “Fuck, that’s good. Like that, Draco, just like that,” Harry says in a strained voice, bending his knees and pushing his feet into the bed. He reaches for Malfoy’s arse and kneads it, before swearing and thrusting upwards.

“Fuck yes. Harder, harder,” Malfoy demands, biting his lip and going faster. Pre-come drips from his cock, gathering on Harry’s stomach, and Harry fucks hard into him. “Need you in me, Harry, need you so much, want this all the time, so much—"

“God, yes.” Harry motions for Malfoy to lean forward on top of him until he’s on his hands and knees, giving Harry more space to thrust. “Gonna give it to you good. Like this, c’mon, let me fuck you good and fast.”

Malfoy dissolves into an incoherent mess, the tendons on his neck standing out like cords as Harry pounds into him. He lowers his head, burying his face into the crook of Harry’s shoulder, his chest heaving and body jerking forward with each slam of Harry’s cock.

“Discipline me next time,” Harry says, barely managing the words as he sheathes himself in one sleek, smooth glide. His voice drops to a raw, hoarse whisper. “Tie me up, blindfold me. Those red silk ribbons.” He swallows, pulling out and punctuating every other word with a hard thrust. “Do whatever you want to your Gryffindor. Just wanna make you feel good.” 

"Wanna be so good for you," Malfoy mumbles. He lifts his head, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

"You are, every fuckin’ time. So perfect. All that I want, all that I need." Harry squeezes Malfoy’s arse so hard that he’s certain he’ll leave marks. Fuck, sex with Malfoy is amazing, brilliant, out of this world. No one else can give it to him this good, give him sex so hot and addictive, as if an inferno is burning in his blood. 

"You don’t know what you do to me," Harry mutters, his orgasm building. "Do to me here." He presses a hand to his heart. He's never been in love, and he doesn't know what his heart is telling him now, but it feels a lot like… like love. 

No matter what happens, they'll always have tonight. 

Malfoy rests his hand on top of Harry’s, and Harry slows down until he’s simply buried inside Malfoy, filling him up completely. They stare at each other in a loaded silence. Malfoy gazes at their joined hands. "Harry, I…" He lifts his eyes to Harry’s face, his voice brittle. "It's only you, always you. You know that."

"Fuck, Draco." Desire and lust floods Harry’s system, so powerful and strong that his heart clenches. He rolls them over until he’s on top. He drives himself into Malfoy, fucking him hard until Malfoy's chanting his name like a prayer, his neck and chest engulfed in a deep blush as he wanks. And when Harry hits that spot one last time, Malfoy shouts wordlessly, punching the bed and spurting all over his stomach. 

At the sight, Harry swears and picks up the pace, his body tensing like a coiled spring. "Gonna come," he slurs. "Where?" 

"In me. Come for me, Harry, come in me, deep." 

The thought of shooting his load in Malfoy is what drives Harry over the edge. "Fuck!" He comes hard inside Malfoy, wide-eyed and unbelievable starbursts of pleasure reverberating within him from head to toe. He releases a long groan, and then eases out, his come trickling out from Malfoy.

Fuck, that's hot, and Harry's still hard. 

Biting his lip, he pushes back into Malfoy again. Malfoy releases a surprised sound, which melts into a rumbling moan. He whispers Harry’s name, spreading his legs and allowing Harry to fuck him slowly, until he finally goes soft.

Harry collapses beside him, their bodies flushed and slick with sweat in the afterglow. Harry would do anything to stay here with him, away from the prying media, societal expectations and familial duties. Malfoy sat for his last N.E.W.T. today, while Harry finished his exams late last week. This marks the beginning of the end for them. The Leaving Ball is in two weeks, and after that… 

He can’t bear to think about it. 

"I like your dimples," Malfoy says, out of the blue. "When you smile." 

Harry smiles, just for him. He smiles, despite his heart sinking. Malfoy hauls himself out of bed, wincing and pressing his palm to his lower back. He roots around in his clothes for his wand and cleans them up. 

Harry isn’t expecting it when Malfoy starts to wear his clothes. 

"We don't have to go back so soon," Harry says at once, sitting up. He hates how hopeful he sounds, but he can't help it. "We could stay until tomorrow morning, wake up together." 

Malfoy pauses in sliding his leg into his trousers. "What? We can’t. Everyone will figure it out."

Unease roils in Harry's belly, and he tightens his hands on the sheets. 

"So what? I don't care, Draco!" he snaps. "We just had sex!" 

"It doesn't change anything." 

Harry recoils, the words driving shock and hurt into his aching heart. 

"It doesn't change anything, does it?" Malfoy bursts out, his cheeks pink not from pleasure, but in agitation. He rubs the back of his neck, a physical tell that hints to Harry that he's lying, that he doesn't mean a fucking word, but—

“Because you’re Harry Potter and I’m Draco Malfoy!” Malfoy lashes out, looking as wretched as the day when Harry saw him in the sixth-floor bathroom. He drops his arm, and his Dark Mark stands out in sharp contrast against his skin. “I can’t abandon my family for you, nor are you going to surrender your hopes and dreams to settle down with me in Britain. You're still going to leave, and I'm going to return to the Manor, care for my parents and uphold the family name. They’re all I’ve got. You'll do what's expected of you, and the same goes for me." His next words lose conviction, tumbling out in a sad whisper. "How we feel for each other… it doesn't change anything."

"What you told me… just now when we were…” Harry’s skin still thuds with Malfoy's touch, those words of meaning and adoration were like a balm, soothing his heart. And now, for Malfoy to turn it all upside down and say that it didn't mean anything…

It was so simple; the tempting promise of mind-blowing orgasms with someone as fit and intriguing, yet as complex and stubborn, as Malfoy. It started with a kiss during detention, but Harry couldn’t let it go. He tracked Malfoy down with the Marauders' Map, and things developed, encouraged by a gradual lowering of defences, late-night talks and a lot of snogging. It was supposed to be easy, straightforward—enjoy each other's company until school ended and they moved on with their separate lives.

Until Harry's messy emotions got in the way. Until he took to gazing at Malfoy during classes, a small, shy smile on his lips and stars in his eyes. Until he developed the habit of facing Malfoy when he sleeps, so that he’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up. 

Harry can't go back to that anymore, because now he wants more, so much more. He laughs, a cold and hard sound of pain masked as anger. "I just want to be with you. Why is that so difficult?" 

Malfoy closes his eyes briefly. "I was never yours, and you can never be mine. Not in this lifetime," he says, his words pierced with pain. He picks up his shirt and puts it on. 

Harry reaches for his glasses and gets out of bed, heading towards his scattered clothes. "So, what now? We pretend that tonight never happened? We wake up tomorrow morning and continue to fool our friends into thinking that there's nothing between us?" he says, his dull, flat voice going muffled when he pulls his T-shirt over his head. 

Just thinking about that is enough to make him sick to the stomach. He wants to march into the Great Hall tomorrow, grab Malfoy's hand and hold it up for the entire world, to declare that they’re together. Harry knows what he felt tonight, but if Malfoy himself refuses to acknowledge it, then… 

_Come away with me._ The question lingers on the tip of Harry's tongue, but he can't keep putting his pride away. He finishes dressing and tucks his wand into his pocket, forcing a breezy tone, even though his heart is crumbling in his chest. "You know what, Malfoy? Maybe it's best that we end it here. The only thing you like about me is my dick, anyway. Besides, we're leaving school soon, so now's a good time, yeah?" He shrugs, looking away from Malfoy's hurt expression.

Every fibre of his being longs to rush over and hold Malfoy close, but he can't. 

Malfoy has made his intentions clear. 

"So, yeah, see you around. Have a good life," Harry says, jamming his hands into his pockets and slouching towards the door. 

"Potter, no," Malfoy says, and the beseeching note in his voice is enough to make Harry look back at him. They’re hanging on the edge of a precipice, the events of tonight forever changing the trajectory of their relationship. 

_Ask me to stay._

They stare at each other, still and silent, as if waiting for the other to make a move first. 

_Ask me to stay, please._

No, Harry's not going to give in anymore. 

His heart all the way down to his shoes, he whirls around and wrenches the door open, slamming it closed behind him, the sound ringing with a sad finality. 

He hurries towards the dorms, propelled by self-righteous anger and painful heartbreak. Just the thought of parting ways, of not touching Malfoy again, of someone else in bed with him, giving him all the pleasure in the world when his pleasure is only for Harry to give…

Jealousy bubbles up within him. Harry growls and balls his fists, breaking into a run. 

In twenty minutes or so, Malfoy will sneak back into the dorms. He'll go to his own bed, which isn't right, because he should be in Harry's arms instead. Harry looks around him, at the portraits who are stirring awake because of his _Lumos_ and his loud breathing. He will never regret sleeping with Malfoy. It was their first time.

And also, their last. 

Tears prickle Harry's eyes, but he swallows the knot of emotion lodged in his throat.

Malfoy doesn't deserve him. 

How did everything end up like this? He doesn't have anything to remember Malfoy by, except for the mind-blowing sex, his splintering heart and Malfoy's vanilla scent soaked into his skin. 

He can't pretend anymore. 

Hogwarts suddenly feels stifling, as suffocating as the outside world, with their flashing cameras and intrusive questions. 

He can't stay here anymore. 

Harry stumbles through the portrait hole, running into Ron, who's sitting alone on the sofa in the dim light, his face turned towards the window. 

Ron snaps out of his thoughts. "Hey, couldn't sleep, so—" He pauses, frowning. "What's wrong?" He looks at the love bites on Harry's neck, and Harry slaps a hand on them. "Something happened between you and Malfoy." 

It isn't a question, and Harry can't be arsed to think of a denial.

"I have to go," Harry says, stalking across the common room. 

"Go to bed? Yeah, it's really late. I'll come with, maybe I can sleep now."

"No, Ron. I have to go." Harry sprints up the steps, two at a time. "I'm leaving Hogwarts. We're finished with our exams anyway."

"But… Hermione? And the Leaving Ball—" 

"I don't care,” Harry snarls, spinning around to face him. "I don't care, because I can't stay. I've had enough, I'm done, done with… with…" He punches the wall in frustration. “I'm gonna spend the night at Hogsmeade and then talk to Kingsley at the Ministry first thing tomorrow morning." 

Ron's gaze lingers on Harry's love bites. They fall silent, a long and loaded moment pulsing between them. Harry doesn't know what to say if Ron asks him about Malfoy. He's tired of forming excuses, of hiding his love bites and his feelings.

Instead, Ron nods. "I'll help you pack.”

They sneak into the dorms. Ron casts a Silencing Charm and holds up his wand for a _Lumos_ while Harry packs his essentials into his backpack and leaves his school things in his trunk, with Ron promising to bring it to the Burrow after Hogwarts. 

Ron follows him to the courtyard in his slippers and pyjamas. They look at each other, the silence stretching, before Harry pulls him into a hug. Ron claps him on the back. 

"Tell Hermione, McGonagall and your mum that I'll be alright. I'll write when I reach wherever the Ministry sends me to." Harry pulls away. "Tell Hermione not to worry." 

"You know she will." 

"Yeah. Wear your dark blue trousers for the Leaving Ball, the ones that Hermione likes so much," Harry says in an attempt at humour, but Ron's smile is wan. 

Harry mounts his broomstick, waves at Ron, and launches himself into the air. He waves at Ron again and flies away until his best friend is a speck in the distance. He continues flying for a moment, before spinning around. He stares at Hogwarts, cloaked in moonlight and mysteries. 

Hogwarts, his first home, where he made his first friends who went through life and death with him. 

Hogwarts, where Malfoy is. The pieces of Harry’s broken heart are shouting at him to stop running, turn around and let Malfoy hold him. They could still salvage the situation, if Malfoy would only—

Enough. 

Harry squares his shoulders, kicks off and takes to the skies, leaving his childhood and Draco Malfoy behind.

* * *

_Geneva, Switzerland_

Harry emerges from the en-suite, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. He regards his new living quarters. They're small and sparsely furnished, but it doesn't bother him—he's one of the few trainees who chose to live alone a short distance away from the academy. He’s not being anti-social, it's just that after spending most of his life in Hogwarts dorms, it's nice having his own space.

Not that he needs a lot of it here; he's practically a stranger in Switzerland. Sure, there might be a flicker of recognition and raised brows when he introduces himself, but it's a far cry from the unwelcome way people gasped, stared and pointed at him, whispering behind their hands, as he entered the British Ministry of Magic two weeks earlier.

"Post me anywhere. Anywhere but here," he requested of Kingsley. 

Three days later, Harry took the Portkey to Zurich's Ministry of Magic and talked to some people. He then went to Geneva, and this is where he will be for the next eighteen months receiving training with the Swiss equivalent of the Aurors, before being posted to another country where he will start working proper. 

He tosses his towel on the bed and walks to his table, unfolding Hermione's letter again. He smiles at her handwriting.

_"I'm glad you've settled down. Switzerland in the summer sounds lovely, and you have to try the chocolates. The Concealment and Tracking module you mentioned sounds tricky, and the teacher you described doesn't sound any better. Is it difficult to find good English textbooks there? If it is, let me know, and I'll send some over. _

_Everyone's doing alright here. Some of the students still gossiping about how you left just like that. McGonagall asked me about you today at lunch. I updated her, and she was relieved. Do write her, won't you?_

_The Leaving Ball is coming soon, and the thought of sitting through the Leaving Feast without you is really strange. You've always been with us for every feast, and it's… _

_We really, really miss you, Harry._

_Anyway, can you imagine who Neville invited for the Ball? Parkinson, Pansy Parkinson! Everyone's really shocked, but I saw the signs, of course."_

Harry reads the rest of the letter, where Hermione talks about McGonagall's career guidance for the eighth-years and her same indecision between becoming a Healer or entering politics. He knows Ron plans to help George at Wheezes until he figures things out.

His stomach twists in homesickness. Just thinking about the scrumptious Leaving Feast is enough to make his mouth water. He misses Ron and Hermione terribly; it doesn't feel right going on an adventure without them. The libraries here are perfect for Hermione, while Ron would be as thrilled as him to catch the game between the Harpies and Karasjok Kites next month. 

Harry looks at Parkinson's name, as if by doing that, the letter will volunteer information about Malfoy. He sighs and puts down the letter. Malfoy probably has a date for the Ball. In fact, he must've forgotten about everything. It's what he wanted, anyway.

He still dreams about Malfoy, still wanks to him. How could he not, when the only pleasure his body knows started and ended with Malfoy? 

It's only been two weeks. He'll get over Malfoy soon enough.

He has to. 

Harry shakes his head, getting rid of his Malfoy-related thoughts. His brows furrowing in determination, he folds up Hermione's letter and places it on top of a _German for Beginners_ book. He pulls _Ethics in the Eyes of the Law_ and Hermione's fifth-year gift of a study planner towards him. 

He gazes out the window, placing his chin on his palm and grinning. The shops and bistros in the square are bustling, and his favourite store is the bakery below his flat. He wakes up to the scent of freshly baked bread every morning, and yesterday Elena gave him an extra roll. 

This is a fresh start, a new beginning. He feels light and unburdened, as if he'd shrugged off a heavy weight on his shoulders. 

Harry wipes the planner clean with a spell, erasing his fifth-year scribblings.

Sunshine reflects off the large fountain in the middle of the square, the rays sparkling with hope, promise and possibilities. 

He opens his textbook and begins to read.

* * *

_Osaka, December 1999_

Harry weaves through the throngs of people at the neon-lit Dotonbori district. He passes by lively eateries, bars and shops, pausing near his favourite _takoyaki_ stand. He considers it for a moment, before looking at his watch and hurrying away. The famous running Glico Man signboard looms ahead of him. 

A poster tacked outside a music shop catches his eye—a pale, young Korean man with platinum blond hair and strikingly delicate features dressed in an oversized grey jumper, tight black jeans with rips at the knees and shiny black loafers. _Jimin_, says the text in English, accompanied by a string of Korean characters below his name. 

Harry slows down, his eyes lingering on the man's blond hair, earrings and pale skin. 

Rain streaks across his glasses, and he looks at the sky, squinting at the heavier drizzle. He pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt, discreetly refreshes his Warming Charm and resumes walking, narrowly avoiding a puddle of rain. He passes Dotonbori Canal, the bright lights of the signs reflected in the water. He rounds a corner, turning into Hozenji Yokocho, a small and old-fashioned alleyway tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Dotonburi. He releases a breath, glad to escape the crowds. He stands outside what appears to be an abandoned sushi shop, peers around, and waves his wand at the dark storefront.

The facade melts away, revealing a jukebox cafe. Harry looks at the sign—IQ148. Despite frequenting the cafe, he hasn’t asked the owner about the origins of this quirky name. Does this mean Ayumi has an IQ of 148?

The bell above his head tinkles when he enters. He waves, greeting the owner in Japanese. Ayumi smiles and asks him if he wants his usual cafe latte. He nods and heads to his table near the window, dumping his gym bag on the ground and making himself comfortable on the squashy sofa, complete with cushions. He takes off his glasses and wipes them on his sweatshirt. He watches Ayumi for a while as she twirls her wand, murmuring spells in Japanese to prepare his drink.

Harry loves the warm and homely feel of IQ148. The décor reminds him of the Burrow, and he makes a satisfied sound and sinks further into the sofa. There are rows of teas and coffee mixes for sale, along with a few dainty porcelain tea-sets. The pastry display is always well-stocked, and Harry sits up and cranes his neck, trying to see if his favourite chocolate cake is available tonight. This time, the café is decorated for Christmas. He smiles at the snow-tipped garlands and the small Christmas tree festooned with colourful, sparkling ornaments.

He thanks Ayumi when she places his coffee in front of him. He takes a sip, wraps his hands around the mug, closes his eyes and sighs. After a moment, he hugs a cushion to his chest and leans back, his shoulders slumping as the tension of the week-long field work ebbs away in this calming ambience and good coffee. It was exhausting, both physically and mentally, working with and teaching the Japanese Aurors, with their different work ethic and ways of thinking. 

The rain continues to fall, and the jukebox plays a melancholy tune not in Japanese, but in what sounds like Korean. The singer is female, her voice soothing, smooth and emotional, complementing the piano and violin in the background. He doesn't understand the lyrics, but the song is poignant and wistful, as if the singer is missing someone far away. 

Harry finds himself thinking about Malfoy. 

He looks at the rain streaking down the window, and absently traces the path of a raindrop with his fingertip. Muggles, their silhouettes blurred behind the glass, trickle past the café, not sparing it a second glance. He holds his mug and lifts his gaze to the moon, which is hanging round and full, accompanied with dark-grey scraps of clouds drifting in the night sky. 

_What are you doing now? Have you ever thought about me?_

Malfoy is probably working in Potions. He's also probably going out with someone; he's too fit and gorgeous to be single. He doesn't know if the Malfoys are aware about Malfoy’s sexuality. They definitely won’t be alright with it at first, but if there's one thing he knows about them, it's their enduring love for their son. Maybe they'd even let him settle down with a bloke in Wiltshire. An image forms in Harry's mind—of Malfoy and another man sitting in the Manor gardens, sipping tea and holding hands, comfortable in their life of gentility and stability.

Something deep in his chest rumbles, voicing jealousy and displeasure, but Harry pushes it away. His eighth year feels like an eternity ago, and although he wouldn't go so far to say that he'd wish Malfoy the best, he hopes Malfoy can find someone who feels so strongly for him as much as Harry feels—

He frowns, rubbing a hand over the thick stubble on his jaw and the top of his neck. 

As much as he _felt_ for Malfoy. 

The tinny sound of a Christmas melody rings through the cafe, jarring Harry from his thoughts. Ayumi laughs when a young girl presses a switch on a tiny sleigh to play another festive song. 

It's Harry's first Christmas away from home. He returned last year, missing the Weasleys and his friends too much. Although he can’t go home this year, he's not spending it alone. A familiar figure approaches the café, and Harry grins when Nowaki enters. He props his umbrella near the door and looks around, his eyes lighting up when he spots Harry. 

"Hey. How was field work?" Nowaki says, matching Harry's smile. He squeezes his hand, his beam widening when Harry returns the gesture. Harry answers, and Nowaki follows up with, "Did Ron and Hermione get back okay?" 

Harry nods. Their four-day visit ended a day before he left for field work.

Ron furtively pulled him aside one evening, clutching a few photographs. _"I'm gonna propose to Hermione soon." _

_"That's brilliant!"_

_"We still have to save up some money for a place and figure out stuff, but…"_ Ron's ears turned red, and he ducked his head. _"I just wanna make it official, y'know? So she knows it's… it's for life."_ He suddenly paled, eyes wide with alarm. _"What if she says no?" _

_"She won't. You two have been together for like, forever."_

_"Really? You think so? I just dunno which ring suits her. What do you think?"_ Ron spread out photos of engagement rings. As Harry sifted through them, a pang of sadness cut through his excitement. He should be looking at the real rings and accompanying Ron to the shop, not looking at photos in a country so far away. Harry asked him about his plans for the engagement, disappointment reverberating through him when he realised he couldn’t be there. 

They had their first dinner in Japan at Harry's favourite _udon_ place. After a while, he asked about Malfoy. He knows they see him sometimes at the Leaky, because Parkinson and Neville are going out now.

_"Did he ask about me?"_

His friends shared a look, and Hermione replied him in the negative even though Ron's face scrunched up in that tell-tale manner, looking very much as if he wanted to tell Harry something.

Nowaki joined them for lunch on their last day. 

"Ron didn't seem to like the _sashimi_ that much," Nowaki points out, his words jolting Harry back to the present. He nicks Harry's biscuit from his saucer and nibbles on it. 

"It was an acquired taste for me too, remember?"

Nowaki chuckles. "Yes." He pushes his chair away from the table. "I'm going to order. Do you want anything else?" 

Harry shakes his head. 

He checks out Nowaki as he walks to Ayumi to order his usual caramel macchiato. He's fit, with a stocky build, strong biceps and well-shaped shoulder blades shifting under his white T-shirt when he rests his arms on the counter. 

Despite looking at Nowaki’s amazing arse, Harry's mind wanders to someone else who is taller and slimmer, someone with blond hair and paler skin. He’s someone who doesn’t laugh and smile as much as Nowaki, but who's full of cutting wit and amusing snark, someone who gets Harry's blood pressure rising with a biting remark and an arched brow. 

Sometimes, when he's in bed with Nowaki, it's not Nowaki he's thinking about.

* * *

_London, August 2000_

"To the happy couple!" they shout and clink their glasses, dissolving into a raucous chorus of cheers and whoops. Firewhiskey sloshes over the rim of Harry's pint, and he looks at everyone crowding the booth in the Leaky—all the Gryffindors in their year, along with some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. It's brilliant seeing everyone together. The last time Harry saw some of them was when he was still at Hogwarts. He returned from Istanbul two days ago, and he'll be leaving for Berlin two days after the wedding.

Seamus and Dean tease Ron and Hermione about the wedding next week, and Harry's best friends share a smile so soft and tender that Harry has to look away. He’s filled with happiness for them, yet his joy is mixed with envy and a stab of loneliness. 

Hermione twists her engagement ring around her finger—the one that Harry agreed on with Ron in Osaka. "I'm so happy you're here,” she says, beaming at him and holding his hand. 

Harry smiles, his fingers tightening around hers. "I'd come back from the ends of the world for this."

The door of the pub swings open, revealing Neville and Pansy Parkinson. Harry can't help himself; he sits up straight and looks at the door, hope flaring in him for a glimpse of a blond head and stormy grey eyes. 

His face falls when another group enters. 

He greets Neville and Parkinson. Neville pulls him into a hug, while Parkinson congratulates Ron and Hermione.

"Hey, no Malfoy?" Seamus asks Parkinson. 

Harry's heart stutters when Parkinson, Ron and Hermione dart a look at Harry. 

"He's busy," she says.

It's halfway into the night when Parkinson sits beside Harry. She regards him with curious eyes, a red-tipped finger circling the rim of her champagne glass. "You looked disappointed to see me earlier," she points out, gesturing to the door with a lazy flick of her wrist, the charms of her bracelet clinking. She eyes him from top to bottom, starting from his double earrings on his left earlobe, down his shoulders, biceps and chest. Harry fidgets in his seat and rubs his beard, the force of her gaze disconcerting.

She inclines her head and drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "He knows you're back for the wedding." 

Harry’s breath catches in his throat at the mention of Malfoy, but his hope deflates when he connects the dots. Malfoy knows, and judging by Seamus' earlier question, his appearance at the pub is rather common. But he's not here tonight, because he wants to avoid Harry.

"Who?" he asks.

Parkinson scoffs. "Don't play dumb. He could never keep anything about you as a secret. He tried, of course, but I'm not his childhood friend for nothing. I know his thoughts and feelings better than himself sometimes." 

Harry touches the cool, wet surface of his mug. Instead of looking at her, his eyes follow the bead of condensation winding its way down. “How is he?" he asks, his voice small.

"London on weekdays, Wiltshire for the weekends. He's working in Potions, and it's annoyingly difficult to get him out of the office at times, and there are far too many explosions in his laboratory." Parkinson's lip curls, although her words are fond. "I do tend to surround myself with musty academics," she says, glancing at Neville, the Hogwarts Herbology professor. 

Harry grins at the thought of Malfoy hunched over his work-bench, surrounded by cauldrons, ingredients, vials and scrolls of parchment. "It suits him. He’s always been keen on that," he blurts out. 

Parkinson pounces on his words, a triumphant smile winking on her lips. “So, he’s told you before about his choice of career?”

Harry’s smile shrivels up, and he hastily backtracks. "Er, I'm glad he found something that he likes so much." He looks away from her inquisitive gaze, turning his attention to some of his friends dancing on the small dance floor in the corner of the pub. 

"But it is curious, however," Parkinson says, her words careful and calculated. Her eyes are piercing, transporting Harry back to eighth year at the Great Hall, when she looked at him over her glass as Malfoy spoke to Andrew Smith. "That he was so miserable the day after his last N.E.W.T., sloping around like a funeral on legs for the rest of term." 

Harry stares at her. 

"Coincidentally, it was after the night you fled Hogwarts in that overly dramatic manner." Parkinson taps a finger on her lower lip, pretending to be deep in thought. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"No," Harry lies. _He was sad when I left. I meant something to him._

"Oh, really?" she remarks, before peering at him intently. "Potter.” She frowns, conflicted. She fiddles with her napkin, folding the corners down and smoothing them out. She repeats the motion, sighing. "If you're not over him, if you still want him, you have to act fast," she says, an urgency in her words. "Time is running out, and preparations are already underway." 

"Preparations? For what?" 

Her expression is grave when she opens her mouth to speak—

"Hiya, Harry. Mind if I interrupt to dance with Pansy? It's our favourite song," Neville barges in with a crooked grin, his arm already around her. 

Harry nods amidst his confusion. Parkinson throws him a strange look as Neville leads her away. He watches as they hold each other and rock to a slow, romantic song. The other couples in their group are dancing too, lost in their own world of two. 

Harry suddenly feels very lonely. 

Neville whispers into Parkinson's ear, and she laughs, a bright and happy sound that Harry has never heard before. She looks so different when she’s with him, so open and expressive. Maybe that's a Slytherin thing, because…

Because Malfoy was like that with him. 

Harry tugs his gaze away from the happy couple and regards his friends. It is nice re-connecting with everyone. Hannah just gave birth to a lovely boy, and Terry Boot just got married. Everyone’s moved on from Hogwarts, be it marriages, going for further studies or starting new jobs.

They've come a long way from the Three Broomsticks at Hogsmeade. 

Harry’s job has caused him to miss birthdays, weddings, pub nights, celebrations and Christmases. Still, he wouldn’t have any other career, which has whisked him away to amazing places with different cultures, food, scenery, people, and ways of thinking.

He glances at Ron and Hermione dancing. Despite his wanderlust, the thought of leaving Britain again, of leaving them, is more difficult than he'd expected. 

Maybe it's time to come home soon. 

He looks around, his smile turning into a frown when a woman stares at him and nudges her companion, indicating Harry with a jerk of her chin. 

Harry slumps down his seat, lowers his head and pats his hair over his scar. 

Maybe not. 

Besides, it's clear that Malfoy doesn't want anything to do with him. _After what you said to each other, how you left like that, d’you think he'd want to see you again?_

Harry’s heart throbs with a familiar and painful longing.

It's been two years. 

He'll come home eventually, but he's not ready yet. 

Not now.

* * *

**/tbc**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All songs listed here belong to their respective owners.
> 
> Scene 1 "Malfoy sucks…": RM & Jin - Trouble  
Scene 2 "Did you…": Let Me Know  
Scene 3 "You ever…": The Truth Untold  
Scene 4 "Geneva, Switzerland": Lights  
Scene 5 "Osaka, December": Lee So Ra & SUGA - Song Request  
Scene 6 "London, August": Young Forever (Unplugged Version)


	2. Tangle

_Barcelona, December 2001_

Harry laughs at Liam's anecdote of a trainee in his current Concealment and Tracking class in Geneva. "If there's a teacher that can straighten him out, it's you," Harry says in German. 

Someone else calls Liam's name. The older man waves at his friend, and then turns back to Harry. "It's great to see you again, but I have to take my leave. All the best in Singapore, and I will see you again when you visit Switzerland," he says, clapping Harry on the shoulder. 

Harry bids goodbye to his ex-instructor (who turned out to be a rather decent bloke, despite the first impression). When a waiter approaches him to refresh his champagne glass, he nods and murmurs his thanks. He retreats to a quiet corner, away from the couples dancing to the serenade played by a small string quartet at the front of the hall. 

Harry sips on his drink. He regards the vast, opulent ballroom decorated in shades of gold, silver and white. Glittering chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, throwing facets of light on the dozen or so twirling couples, mostly composed of Western European Ministry officials and their partners. A cool night breeze drifts into the room, and he absently runs a hand through the thick and luxurious curtains framing the open French windows. He wanders around the hall. The low hum of conversations in different languages and accents fills the air, and he smiles at a few familiar faces. He used to be uncomfortable rubbing shoulders at such formal settings, but he's fairly used to it now.

This isn't his first Ministry Christmas dinner and dance, and he's no longer that awkward eighteen-year-old. _It's early December, yet it's a Christmas event. They'll be celebrating it in November next._ Harry smiles wryly to himself. He glances at his watch, and then at the grand staircase, where some people trade air-kisses for goodbyes.

The night is winding down. After the extravagant eight-course dinner, the tables were whisked away to make space for a dance floor. Harry swirls the champagne in his glass and eyes the dessert buffet. Maybe he'll nab another crème brûlée before calling it a night; he has two long-distance transfer Portkeys to Singapore tomorrow morning.

He makes his way to the desserts, blinking when a lady accidentally drops a slice of cheesecake on the floor. Amused, Harry watches as she looks around, whips out her wand and vanishes it. Humming, he grabs a clean plate and fork and considers the desserts. _If Ron were here, he'd go for the chocolate mousse. But I'm not in the mood for chocolate. Maybe I'll get another drink._

Harry shrugs and turns around to the start of the line to replace his cutlery. He looks at the bar, locking eyes with—

—Draco Malfoy.

Harry almost drops his plate.

Rooted to the spot, he stares, eyes widening and jaw dropping, shockwaves of disbelief reverberating from his core. Malfoy stares back, one arm slipping from the counter and dangling limply at his side. His breath caught in his throat, Harry remains still, afraid that if he moves, Malfoy will disappear like a dream. The rest of the ballroom fades away, his world narrowing down to Malfoy. 

Harry's entire being lights up with longing.

Malfoy is dressed impeccably in tailor-made wizarding robes that highlight his tall, lean frame. Compared to their eighth year, his hair is now shorter and un-gelled, reminding Harry of his hairstyle from sixth year. A lock of hair falls over his left eye, and Harry’s hand clenches as he suppresses the desire to smooth it back.

They regard each other with unblinking eyes. 

The bartender taps Malfoy on the shoulder, proffering a glass of wine. Even though Malfoy tilts his face towards him, his gaze is still fastened on Harry. A man walks past between them, interrupting Harry’s line of sight. 

Harry blinks rapidly, his surroundings slowly filtering back. He runs a shaky hand through his hair and quickly replaces his plate and fork. He squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a breath so deep that his stomach clenches. _He’s here. In Barcelona. At a Ministry ball. Am I seeing things?_ He counts to three, before opening his eyes and looking at the bar, only to see Malfoy making a beeline towards him, grey eyes holding him in place. Malfoy pushes past the Head of DMLE of the Portuguese Ministry. She frowns at him, but he pays her no heed. 

His heart pounding in his ears, Harry wipes his palms on the thighs of his trousers and moves until they meet in the middle. 

On closer inspection, he notices other changes—Malfoy no longer wears earrings, and he has swapped his leather bracelets for a gleaming branded watch and his family ring. His robe is fastened on the base of his throat with a silver brooch emblazoned with the Malfoy crest.

He is the very picture of aristocracy and pureblood wealth, looking so far removed from their eighth year that Harry can hardly believe their dalliance ever happened.

Malfoy takes one step closer, and another, until he's near enough to touch. 

And Merlin, Harry wants to. So, so much. 

No, it's impossible to pretend that nothing happened between them. 

"Good evening," Malfoy greets, his gaze travelling from Harry’s face, lingering on his beard, before sliding down to the glimmering badges on Harry’s Ministry uniform. Along with the Swiss officials, Harry picked up the habit of wearing his uniform at formal Ministry events in Geneva—it is rather comfortable, and he avoids the trouble of hunting down suitable robes and suits. His sleek and well-fitting uniform is dark-blue, accented with golden lines at the collar, ends of his sleeves and down his chest. 

"Hi. Fancy seeing you here," Harry says, wincing inwardly at the croak of uncertainty in his voice, as if he's some tongue-tied first-year. 

"I…" Malfoy trails off, looking equally rattled. "I'm unsure if you are aware, but I'm working at Slug and Jiggers, Potions research and development." He pauses, eyes darting behind Harry, before he continues in a hurry, as if there’s a time limit to their conversation. "We supply potions and healing salves to the Ministry. We're hoping to partner with the Spanish Ministry too, so my boss received an invitation for tonight. He fell sick yesterday, so I took a last-minute Portkey to replace him." 

"Ah," Harry says, too distracted by the shape of Malfoy's mouth as he talks. A memory bubbles up, of those lips sliding down and around his cock, the satin-silk sensation of Malfoy swallowing him— 

Malfoy trails another gaze down the length of Harry’s body, his eyes reflecting the desire that Harry feels. Hope flares in Harry's heart, as bright and sudden as a shooting star. Maybe it’s fate that brought them together again. Maybe something can come out of this chance encounter. Harry opens his mouth to speak, but when a woman appears beside Malfoy and loops her arm around his arm in a heart-stoppingly intimate gesture, Harry’s words wilt on his lips. 

Malfoy starts. He blinks at her, dazed. She looks at Harry, and her polite smile freezes and slips off for a split second, before emerging again, even brighter than before. She tips her head to the side, blue eyes flickering between them. "I don't believe we've been introduced." 

"Oh." Malfoy clears his throat. "May I introduce my… my fiancée, Astoria Greengrass?"

Harry's heart plummets like a boulder. 

"I'm sorry, what?” he blurts out. Stunned, he stares at them, his mind refusing to wrap around Malfoy's words.

Unfazed, Greengrass extends her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Potter." 

Harry recovers his equilibrium. "My apologies for my manners, or lack thereof. I haven't seen Malfoy in so long, so it's a surprise. Pleased to meet you." He takes her soft and delicate hand, so different from his rough and calloused hand. She is everything he isn’t. Proper, pretty, pureblood Astoria Greengrass, in her dazzling evening gown, expensive heels, long blond hair, perfect make-up and sparkling earrings so long that they graze her neck.

Malfoy stands beside her, tall and equally striking. 

They make such a respectable and matching pair. 

Jealousy, dark and ugly, twists in the pit of Harry's belly, so intense and sudden that he has to look away. 

"Please excuse us, Mr Potter. I think I'd like to have a dance. Enjoy the rest of the night," Greengrass murmurs, inclining her head. She leads Malfoy to the dance floor. 

Harry stays, waiting to see if Malfoy looks back at him. 

He doesn't. 

With every second, a noxious cocktail of confusion, disbelief and shock morphs into ire, frustration and resignation. He stalks towards a wall, sticking a finger into his collar to give himself more air, easing the heated anger coiling in him. Fuming, he leans against the wall and folds his arms across his chest. With narrowed eyes, he watches them dance, each graceful step of Greengrass feeling like she’s stomping all over his heart.

So, Malfoy is straight? He certainly wasn't three years ago, when he was begging for Harry to go deeper and faster. Harry snarls, teeth sinking into his lower lip at the recollection of Malfoy beneath him. If that's the case, then Harry was nothing more than a convenient plaything in Malfoy’s rebellious phase. Or is he gay, but denying himself to obey his parents and play happy families? 

Harry doesn't know which one is worse. 

Malfoy looks up as he twirls Greengrass, his gaze falling on the spot where Harry was standing moments ago. Harry pushes himself off the wall, and the movement catches Malfoy's eye. Another turn, and Greengrass is facing Harry. Despite himself, his anger dissipates, giving way to mounting pain at the love and affection twinkling in her eyes when she looks at Malfoy. Harry sags against the wall. They execute another twirl, and Greengrass glances at Harry. Her dreamy smile vanishes. She closes her eyes and buries her face into Malfoy’s neck, holding him so tight as if she'd lose him any second. 

Harry's had enough. 

He nabs a champagne from a passing waiter and downs it in one gulp, slamming the empty glass on a nearby table. He rubs his face with his hand and unbuttons the first two buttons of his uniform. Determined to put Malfoy out of his mind, yet unwilling to leave the ballroom, he circulates the room, striking up conversations with various people. 

He's in mid-conversation with Jerome Dupont, Head of Muggle Affairs in the French Ministry, when he spots Malfoy hovering a distance away behind Jerome. Malfoy skewers him with a gaze so intense that Harry breaks off in mid-sentence. Malfoy disappears into a balcony, and Harry hesitates.

He doesn't know what's going to happen, but he can’t say no to Malfoy. 

He makes his excuses to Jerome, and goes to the balcony. Malfoy turns away from the skyline of Barcelona to face him. 

Harry doesn't even give him a chance to speak. "Your fiancée? A woman? If it was a bloke—" he pauses when Malfoy frantically casts a Silencing Charm, "With another bloke, I'd understand, but a woman?" 

Grey eyes flash in annoyance, that familiar undercurrent of heat and anger suddenly crackling into life between them. Malfoy's jaw hardens. He bites out through clenched teeth, "She understands me. She's good for me—" 

"Good for you?" Harry cuts in. "But she’s missing a prick, yeah?" He strides towards him, his mouth moving faster than his brain. "Does she know about your first time? How you took it up the arse?" His voice drops, a small part of him relishing Malfoy’s cornered expression. "When you took me up the arse? Or are you miraculously straight now, because of your blind devotion to your parents’ wishes? How can you lie to yourself, deny your own sexuality?" Harry hates his unnecessary crudeness in this formal setting, but he can't help it. He’s always had this childish urge to get Malfoy into a mood, especially when he wants nothing more but to crowd him up against the railing and have his way with him. Christ, he looks so good, he still smells like vanilla—

"Shut up, Potter," Malfoy growls. "Don't you dare bring up that night in the Room of Requirement." His words emerge fast and hurried, finally unchained after three years. "I went back that night to the dorms, only for Weasley to ambush me, all angry and bitter, saying that you'd left. I fucking thought you went to the loo, not that you left Hogwarts! You just fucking left like that!” He raises his fists as if to hit Harry’s chest, but drops his arms to his sides.

Instead, he holds Harry’s gaze for a long, painful moment, before looking away, his voice small. “I stared at your trunk, your bed, every night while you were in bloody Switzerland.” He swallows. “You can't just come into someone's life, make them feel special, and then leave.” 

Harry stares at him with wide eyes. _I made him feel… special._ "You know why." He pauses when his voice breaks. "You know why I left," he whispers, his heart beating an unsteady tempo in his chest.

Malfoy ducks his head, smoothing down the front of his robes with a shaky hand. "Yes." He hesitates, and then releases a long, low sigh of defeat. "You know what's the worst part?" he murmurs, eyes midnight with sadness and words trembling with hurt. "I was going to ask you to the Leaving Ball." 

_What?_

Malfoy rests his elbows on the banister, looking out at the city. Harry drinks in the sight of his side profile, eyes roaming from his jawline as sharp as his cutting remarks, the bare piercings on his earlobe, to the wayward lock of hair falling over his eye. Harry's fingers twitch, the desire to touch him overwhelming.

Instead, Harry curls his hands around the railing. 

"I knew you returned for Granger's wedding last year," Malfoy says. "Pansy met you at the Leaky, and I knew you'd be there. I didn't go, couldn't go because if I looked at you, I'd throw away all of the photographs that Mother sent me. Photographs of prospective wives. Of…" He absently twists his family ring. "Of Astoria." 

It comes back to Harry in a rush; Parkinson’s urgent words, _"If you're not over him, you have to act fast.”_

"We've been together for a year and a half, and she's good for me. Good for my family," Malfoy says, and they fall into a strained silence. Harry knows very well about pureblood arrangements from Ron. It's tradition for most pureblood marriages to be a political and economic affair, with some of them being entirely devoid of love. 

"Are you happy?" Harry asks, his voice flat and dull. 

A long pause. "Yes," Malfoy says. And then he rubs the back of his neck in the same way when he lied to Harry in the Room of Requirement, claiming that their first time meant nothing to him.

Malfoy rests his forearm on the banister, and Harry looks at the elegant turn of his wrist, tapering into long fingers that once trailed over every inch of Harry's body. "Does she love you?" Harry asks, even though he already knows the answer.

"Yes." 

"Do you love her?" This time, he can hardly disguise the hitch in his voice. 

"I can never love her the way she loves me." Malfoy draws in a deep, trembling breath. "Not the way that I…" he peters off, turning to Harry. With mounting adrenaline, Harry tracks Malfoy's eyes as he trails a hot-blooded gaze all over Harry, as if this is his last chance to look at him. "The piercings, the attitude, my rebellion in eighth year, I got over all of that. But you… You," Malfoy whispers, his halting words emerging in a voice pitched husky and low.

And it's only now that it dawns on Harry, the realisation so surreal, like he missed a step walking down the stairs. This magnetic pull, this fervent longing between them will never fade. No matter how many countries he visits, how much time has passed, he will never forget about Malfoy. No matter how many men he’s been with, his body will always yearn for Malfoy’s touch. 

A piece of his aching heart will always be reserved for Malfoy, just like how a corner of Malfoy's heart will always have Harry’s name carved on it. 

Just two small steps, and he’s pushing Malfoy up against the banister, his arms on either side of him, trapping him. Malfoy’s eyelashes flutter, and he bites his lower lip. Their breaths are shallow, their shoulders tense, the heat of their bodies shimmering between them. They're so close, yet not touching, barely an inch of space separating their heaving chests.

Harry tilts his head up, his lips hovering near Malfoy's neck. "You're still as gorgeous as when we were eighteen."

A visible shudder ripples through Malfoy, and he makes that familiar sound, a cross between a sigh and a sob, reminding Harry of how he moved on top of him. Before Harry can control himself, he pushes his hips forward, pressing their erections together.

Malfoy shoves him away at once. "April. The wedding, at the Manor. She wants a spring wedding." 

The words are like ice-cold water dousing Harry’s heat. "I hope you'll be very happy together," he says, a growl building at the back of his throat. "I'm sure she'll make a beautiful bride and a loving mother to your children." He turns away from Malfoy and presses his elbows on the banister, shoulders slumping and head hanging.

"I—" 

"Get out," Harry hisses.

"Harry—" 

His name on Malfoy’s lips reminds Harry of them writhing with pleasure together, skin sliding against skin, the air throbbing with their moans and gasps—

"Leave!" Harry snaps, whirling around and pinning Malfoy with a furious glare. He presses his back onto the banister, a constant and solid weight grounding him, reminding him not to do anything stupid. "Leave before I do something that we'd regret, like bringing you back to my place and fucking you!"

Malfoy's lips part, and he gasps. His hips give an involuntary jerk, the bulge in his trousers obvious even beneath his robes. It's so easy for Harry to pull him into his arms and kiss him, and Malfoy won't say no. He can’t say no to him.

_"We can't stop, don't you understand? I can't stop, Harry—"_

Malfoy takes a shaky step back, before turning and fleeing.

It's a cruel twist of fate to stumble on each other like this, three years later. To see his own desire and longing reflected in Malfoy, only for them to be yanked apart by reality and its expectations again. With vacant eyes, Harry gazes at the twinkling stars and the dark clouds, high up in the heavens that sold wishes. 

He doesn’t know whether to punch a wall or dissolve into tears of frustration.

It's suddenly too stifling, too suffocating, like how Harry found Hogwarts after the Room of Requirement. _I have to get out of here._ He storms out, heading towards the grand staircase. He spots Greengrass near a marble statue, and they lock eyes. She presses her lips together, looking strangely resigned.

He bursts out into the streets, blending with the crowds outside. With no destination in mind, he breaks into a fast-paced stride. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms in disappointment and agitation. 

_"I was going to ask you to the Leaving Ball!"_

And Harry wonders why he broke his own heart.

* * *

_MACUSA, New York, early April 2002_

Harry puts his coffee down, and then takes off his jacket and drapes it on the back of his chair, something that he does every morning when he reaches the office. On his table are two manila envelopes printed with the choices of two locations for his next posting:

_Gwacheon, South Korea_

_London, United Kingdom_

Harry stares. 

He knows very well—can't forget it, no matter how much he tried—what's happening in Wiltshire in late April. 

He knows the location he should pick if he wants to do the right thing. 

He stretches a hand towards the envelope labelled with Korea. 

At the very last moment, however, Harry changes course, his hand tightening around the posting in London.

* * *

_London, April 2002_

Harry's leg jiggles under the table, and he taps his spoon on the edge of his bowl of chicken noodle soup. 

"Bloody hell, looking at you is making me anxious," Ron remarks, taking a swig of his soda. Beside him, Hermione sighs and takes another mouthful of her soup. Harry looks down at his food—he's barely taken two bites of his lunch.

He isn’t supposed to be here, at Ron and Hermione's place. On this fateful Sunday, he was supposed to be stuck somewhere far away in the marshes of Ireland. He purposely signed up for field work over the weekend to help Labelle train his students in Defence. Unfortunately, Labelle fell sick with food poisoning last night, and Harry cancelled the entire mission. 

Harry puts his spoon down. He eyes the clock on the wall, the tick-tock sound amplified in his ears. With mounting jealousy, he imagines the happiest day of their lives—the Manor gardens will be tastefully decorated, with blooming flowers and an aisle scattered with petals. There’ll be dainty servings of food, along with a towering wedding cake. Everything will reek of wealth and status, with the Malfoys using this opportunity to show off to other elitist, musty purebloods. And Greengrass, perfect and proper Astoria Greengrass, will be in white, her dress breathtakingly beautiful, while Malfoy will be—

He'll be gorgeous, as always. 

They will recite their vows, slip rings on each other’s fingers, promise the rest of their lives to each other—

Harry shoves his bowl away so hard that soup sloshes over the side, spilling on the table. He mutters an apology and waves his wand at it to clean up the mess. 

But his mind is already scampering away to the possibility of stopping the proceedings before Malfoy truly and irreversibly commits himself to a lie of a marriage that is entirely one-sided on Greengrass' part.

"Talk me out of it," Harry pleads. He waits expectantly, his gaze flickering between his two best friends. He waits for Hermione to fold her hands in her lap and launch into her usual lectures. He waits for Ron to shrug, wearing an easy smile as he nods along to Hermione, jumping in occasionally. 

Instead, what he gets is silence. 

Harry blinks. "C'mon. I can't crash the wedding," he says, trying to inject a breezy tone into his voice and failing miserably. 

"Really? You can't?" Hermione says crisply, arching a brow. "Then why aren't you in Korea now? Why did you dismiss Labelle's students in Ireland? Even though it wasn't your class, you could have easily taken over. It's Defence for first-year trainees. You could've done it with your eyes closed. You’re here because you already know what you want to do."

"Malfoy isn't the only one lying to himself,” Ron adds. 

Of course, Ron and Hermione would know. Sometimes, they know things about Harry that he isn't willing to admit even to himself.

"I think I ought to tell you this," Hermione says, taking a deep breath. "Years ago, over dinner in Osaka, when you asked us whether Malfoy asked after you, I lied and said that he didn't." 

Harry leans forward, his stomach fluttering with hope. "For how long did he ask after me?" 

They share a look. "Harry, he…" Ron's voice drops to a whisper. "He never stopped." 

Harry's heart stops beating for a second, before hammering in his chest in double-quick time. 

"He asked us about you, all casual and flippant, but he didn't fool us. Asked us how you were, where were you, if you were safe, if you've found someone. He was so worried when you got badly injured in Melbourne last year, he owled us every couple of days to check if you were alright." 

Hermione continues. "He stopped asking when he was going out with Astoria, but it was obvious he wanted to. So, we mentioned you in conversations instead, indirectly answering his questions. And then he came back from…" She turns to Ron. "What was the city that Pansy mentioned? The Christmas Ministry ball last year?" 

"Barcelona," Harry says at once. 

"Yeah. After Barcelona, he started asking again, and he was even more on edge." Ron pauses. "Although he hasn't been coming for pub nights lately. Probably preparing for the wedding, or avoiding something, I reckon."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Hermione releases a huff of exasperation. "What use would that be, Harry? You never told us exactly what happened between you two in eighth year. Would you drop everything, turn your back on your career to be with him? You love your job and seeing the world, and you were with Nowaki then." She peers at him. "Although I think you're more open to the idea of coming home lately."

Harry’s jaw is set and his gaze is alert, his muscles tightening. "Ron, how long for a Portkey to Wiltshire?" he asks, hoping that Ron's colleagues at the Department of Magical Transportation would be able to help. 

Ron looks at the determined furrow of Harry's brows, and goes to the Floo. Hermione frowns at Harry and places her hand on top of his. “Have you thought about the consequences? The negative backlash facing the Malfoys and Astoria Greengrass? It’ll be splashed all over the tabloids tomorrow morning.” Hermione squeezes his hand. “Malfoy is so unpredictable. Do you really know the extent of his feelings for you? Stopping the wedding doesn't mean you'll get him." 

"But it means I'll stop him from making this mistake. Or at least postpone it, shake some sense into him. I can't stand it, Hermione. Him lying to himself, living a life of denial. I’ve thought about it for ages, and I know what I felt in Barcelona,” he says, punctuating his words with a thump on the table. 

"You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you don't do anything," Hermione says. 

It isn't a question. 

"Is he worth it?" she asks softly. 

Memories surface; of him in bed with Malfoy, Malfoy’s hand on his heart, whispering _"It's you, it's always been you."_ And a more recent one, the hitch in Malfoy's breath and the longing radiating from those expressive grey eyes as he said _"You,"_, that word floating on a sigh that went straight to Harry's heart, painting a world of promises that he desperately wants to keep.

"Yes," he says without missing a beat. "He's worth it. Worth everything that could possibly happen." He stands up, pocketing his wand and wallet when Ron hurries to the kitchen. 

"Portkey Central Room 24, Portkey number 506317 to Wiltshire. Twenty minutes from now. It's not that far from the Manor. A good Point-Me Spell would be enough,” Ron says, trailing behind Harry. 

"I owe you one, mate," Harry says, already grabbing a handful of Floo powder. He glances at his friends before he steps into the Floo, feeling a rush of gratitude. They're his rock, his shelter, his home ever since he was eleven. 

No matter what happens, they'll always be there for him.

The travel to Malfoy Manor passes in a blur: the mad dash past the labyrinthine rooms of Portkey Central, narrowly avoiding trolleys and children, and the tug behind his navel as he's whisked away to Wiltshire. Frantic Point-Me Ppells, a desperate ransacking of his brain to recall the way, and a lot of running. The adrenaline, anticipation and something that he recognises as fear thunders through his veins. 

He reaches the long driveway of the Manor and slows to a jog. His heart is thudding, not only because of the physical exertion. When he's at the open Manor gates, he doubles over, palms pressed on his knees as he sucks in lungfuls of fresh air. He wipes the sweat off his brow, and then enters the gardens, hunching low as he sneaks towards the rows of people seated on white benches. 

He regards the crowd, squirming at how different he is from them. He’ll never fit in. His determination wavers, doubt and uncertainty finally sinking in. His foot pauses in mid-step, and he withdraws. Can he really disrupt a wedding? He could simply sit down and watch it unfold. He could watch Greengrass, dressed in a sleeveless white gown, looking radiant and beautiful, exactly how a bride should be on her wedding day. Malfoy looks so dashing that Harry forgets to breathe for a moment. Malfoy matches Greengrass’ smile, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Someone says Harry's name, and he spins towards the witch. It doesn't take long before his name is spreading like wildfire, with some of them tutting at his attire of shirt and jeans. Most of them, however, stare and point at him, breaking out into whispers behind their hands, murmurs that grow louder as Harry stands, paralysed. It's been so long since he has received this sort of virulent attention. His unease builds, settling on him like a second skin.

It's the sight of Malfoy and Greengrass standing together in their wedding attire, the sight of their joined hands that propel Harry’s limbs back to life. Steeling himself, he lurches onwards, walking down the aisle. The whispers intensify, and some of them are craning their necks for a better look. Undeterred, Harry fastens his eyes solely on Malfoy, who stares back, his eyes widening in shock and jaw going slack. 

He drops Greengrass’ hands at once. 

Harry walks faster. 

He’s at the front when there's a deep growl of his full name. He already knows who it is, but he looks anyway, registering the identical looks of abject horror on Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s faces. Narcissa clutches her pearl necklace while Lucius glares at him with apoplectic rage, daring him to take another step.

Harry falters. 

Pansy Parkinson peers around Narcissa, skewering him with a piercing gaze. 

She tips her head towards Malfoy, urging him on. 

That’s all the encouragement that Harry needs. 

"Astoria, dear," a lady pipes up, looking at Harry and the couple. "You haven't… with Mr Potter?"

"No, Mother." Greengrass stares hard at Harry. "I'm not the one he's here for." She says it when Harry steps on the altar beside Malfoy, so that Malfoy is sandwiched between him and Greengrass. 

A collective gasp rises from the crowd. 

Torn, Malfoy's eyes flicker between them, but it eventually settles on Harry. The intensity of his gaze ignites Harry’s nerves, and his breath stalls. Malfoy leans towards him, and warmth floods Harry, his senses quivering with desire. 

"How dare you?" Greengrass hisses, jolting both men from their trance. She glowers at Harry, eyes burning with resentment and her words low and trembling. “Why now? In such a public setting? You had your chance years ago.” 

Harry hardens his jaw and lifts his chin up, channelling an even stare towards her. 

“Astoria, no,” Malfoy exclaims in alarm when she slips off her wedding ring. 

She takes Malfoy's hand and presses the ring into his palm, her nails digging hard into Malfoy’s skin and leaving crescent-shaped indents. She gazes at him, her tone softening. "I love you, Draco. I know you do, too, in your own way, but we can’t continue like this.” She lets out a soft, broken sound of defeat. “I’m done.”

She shoots Harry one last withering glare and walks away, her head held high, spine straight and her pride intact, leaving both men behind at the altar. 

"Astoria," Malfoy calls, but he doesn't chase her. 

_He doesn't chase her._

Harry whispers Malfoy's name. They look at each other, both as still and frozen as the figurines that have fallen so far from the top of a wedding cake. What if Harry didn't leave Hogwarts? What if he accepted Malfoy’s invitation to the Leaving Ball? What if they worked things out? Would it be completely mad to imagine that this… this could be their wedding?

"Do you know what you've done?" Malfoy whispers. He stares at the ring on his palm, and then at Harry, his grey eyes like a sky that could bring either sunshine or a thunderstorm.

"I stopped you from living a lie.” Harry pitches his words low, aware of their rapt audience. “I tried so hard to let go, but after Barcelona…” He gestures to the space between them, his voice a laryngitic croak and his emotions a tangled mess. “You felt it too, yeah? That’s why I had to come today.” He reaches out, fingers hovering inches away from Malfoy’s wrist. Malfoy moves closer, their fingertips brushing, but he recoils when Lucius Malfoy barks out Harry’s full name.

"What in Salazar’s name are you doing, Potter? I certainly don’t recall sending you an invitation," he snaps through clenched teeth. He sends a vicious glare towards Harry, shaking a trembling fist at him. “How dare you—” 

"Lucius, please," Narcissa soothes, taking his hand and rubbing it. "Your heart."

Lucius ignores her and turns to his son. Lucius’ features soften, the ire in his eyes fade, and his shoulders slump in disappointment. It’s only now that Harry notices the frailness and feebleness of the Malfoy patriarch. His cheeks are sunken, his arm quivering and his knuckles white as he grasps his walking stick for support, even though he’s sitting down. His voice is tired and brittle. “Draco. Your bride stormed out, and yet you’re still here? What will our guests think?” He sighs and shakes his head. “You’re our only son, the heir to the Malfoy line. And you’re throwing away centuries of tradition for him.”

“Father,” Malfoy murmurs, his resolve crumbling. 

Harry frowns. “Yeah, for me,” he retorts. He’s had enough of Malfoy sacrificing his own happiness to live up to the stiflingly high expectations of the Malfoy heritage. “Me, this Half-blood who will never be good enough for you? Bloody ironic, isn't it, when everyone else would be glad to have me join their family. Me, this bloke who killed Voldemort? Who can’t bear you grandchildren? Or is it all three?" He juts out his chin in combat, eyes flashing. “Maybe you should think about your son’s happiness instead of focusing on your outdated pureblood traditions!” he shouts, lip curling with derision at the last word.

"Potter!" Malfoy hisses, scandalised.

“Outdated?” His eyes bulging, Lucius repeats the word until it dissolves into an incoherent gurgle. He clutches at his heart, before slumping down and collapsing, his walking stick clattering to the floor.

"Father!" Malfoy yells, dashing towards him. Someone screams, and chaos erupts. Nearby guests surge forward, clustering around the Malfoys. Narcissa flings an arm out, asking for space while Malfoy loosens the cravat around his father's neck. 

Flustered, Harry shifts from foot to foot. "I’ll call Mungo’s.” He rears back when Malfoy glares at him over his shoulder, his flinty eyes like daggers. 

"Haven't you done enough?" he snaps. When Lucius holds his son’s wrist, Malfoy turns back to him, his face crumpling in worry. 

"Is there a Healer or a nurse here?" Parkinson calls, while Zabini helps Malfoy to pull Lucius into a sitting position.

"Me. Make way, please."

There's someone pushing through the crowd. His mind reeling, Harry looks at the tight knot of Malfoys, and then at the people and the fancy setting. Panic sets in when his thoughts morph into something darker, lifting the lid on memories that he dealt with a long time ago. The Snatchers brought him here, Bellatrix tortured Hermione, Dobby died—

_I don't belong here in their world._

Harry takes one step away, then another. He runs down the aisle and flees, wanting nothing more than Hermione’s hugs and Ron’s words of understanding.

* * *

Harry jabs at the TV remote. He's slouched out on the sofa, a bag of crisps on his chest and crumbs scattered on his T-shirt. Ron and Hermione are away at work, while he's bumming around at their place. It’s been a week since he crashed Malfoy’s wedding— 

He frowns and flicks to another channel. 

It took two days for the tabloids to get wind of the society wedding that never happened, and Harry glimpsed the magazine headlines at the news-stand outside the Ministry. The backlash doesn't bother him. He never hid his sexuality, knowing that British tabloids mention him when they see him with other blokes on the streets in other countries.

Malfoy, however…

Harry sighs and pulls a cushion closer to him. Harry spent the week burying himself in work. Kingsley approved his vacation leave yesterday, looking at him with sympathy and giving him a consoling squeeze on the shoulder. 

Harry starts when the doorbell rings. He goes to the door, his head jerking back in surprise.

Incredulous, he stares at Astoria Greengrass for a long moment.

She looks behind him. "May I come in? I'm not particularly keen on having a conversation at the door." 

"Of course," Harry mutters. He steps to the side, a heavy sensation pooling in his belly. _Probably doesn't want an audience when she slaps me or hexes my balls off._ He brings her to the kitchen, and they sit across each other at the table. He would offer tea, but it’s not a social call. 

She blinks at his AC/DC T-shirt, raising her eyebrows at the crumbs. Harry hastily wipes them off, looking at her attire—a sleeveless blue blouse that brings out her eyes and black jeans. Her make-up is light, and her hair is tied up into a ponytail. She's prettier like this, someone that Harry can imagine seeing at the grocery store or a café. 

What does one say when he has interrupted someone's wedding? _I'm sorry._ But he's not. He doesn’t regret it at all. He will never forget the way Malfoy gazed at him with soft, tender eyes and a growing smile so bright and genuine, finally looking like a happy bridegroom.

"In case you’re wondering, Draco’s father is stable. We’re lucky there was a Healer present,” Greengrass says briskly. At Harry’s nod, she continues. “Pansy told me you're staying with your friends.” She opens her handbag, pulling out a small card. She looks at it, her upper lip caught between her teeth. Indecisive, she glances at Harry, and then at the card.

Eventually, she places it on the table and slides it over to him.

It's an address in Lisbon, Portugal. 

"He's not in Britain anymore, because of the media and… everything." She taps the card. "He's here. Only I know of this address. I don't know how long he will stay in Lisbon, so you should leave soon." 

"Why are you giving this to me?" Harry asks, stunned. "You should be the one going there.”

She dips her head, and a tendril of hair falls, framing her face. She tucks it behind her ear. Her eyes are faraway when she speaks. "He sometimes says your name when he sleeps. He reads every article that mentions you. Just seeing a photo of you with another man is enough to ruin his day.” She shrugs, a faint smile of resignation curving her lips. “And then we met you at Barcelona. I saw how he looked when you ran out. He took me to bed that night, but I wasn't the one he was thinking of."

Harry swallows, and she continues.

"It wore me down, too. Waiting for him to call the wedding off. To tell me that he rekindled things with you.” 

"Did he tell you anything? About us?" 

Greengrass shakes her head. "No. Of course not. But I'm no fool. There were rumours during your eighth year, and I saw how you looked at each other across the Great Hall." Harry must've looked confused, for she backtracks. "I was a Slytherin two years below your year. Draco caught my eye then, someone so dashing and debonair…" she trails off, a dreamy smile on her face. "I never thought I'd come this close to having him in my life." 

_Only for me to muck it all up._

Her smile fades when she touches her bare ring finger. "You were so far away all this time. So far and so unreachable. So, I thought his feelings for you would fade eventually. That it would be alright in the end, that we could work…” She shakes her head, staring at nothing in particular. “I love him so much. Still do, of course, you can't throw away three years of courtship because of a wedding that was never meant to be. And he loves me too, in his own sweet and thoughtful way, although I know he can never reciprocate my affections in a similar fashion." 

Harry turns the card over and over, rubbing a corner with a fingertip. 

"After what he's been through, I want him to be happy," she says, looking hard at him. “I want him to have everything the world can offer him. I want him to be loved in the way that he deserves. And if I'm not the one—" She breaks off, her composure cracking when she swallows a sob. She presses her lips together and looks away from Harry. He stares at the bag of bread on the table, giving her time to pull herself together.

Greengrass alternates between clenching and releasing her hands, as if at a loss of what to do. "If I'm not the one to give him his happiness in this lifetime, then I'd rather let him go. Let someone else love him, so that he can feel what I feel for him, this all-consuming love so strong and dizzying that sometimes I don't know what to do with myself." 

The air echoes with the force of her words.

She closes the clasp of her bag and draws in a deep breath. "That's why I gave you that address." She stands up, and Harry sees her out.

He pauses at the door. "I hope you find someone who loves you as much as you love Malfoy," he says. 

In return, she gives him a sad little smile that creaks at the hinges, reminding him of her happy ever after that never did work out. "Goodbye, Mr Potter." 

After she leaves, Harry presses his back against the door and looks at the address.

He hesitates, and then jolts into action. He runs up the stairs, two at a time, and then begins to pack his things.

* * *

_Lisbon, Portugal_

Malfoy looks like he hasn't slept a wink.

"What the hell? Potter?" Astonished, he stares at Harry on his doorstep. "Don't tell me Astoria…" 

Harry really should stop turning up like this at places where Malfoy least expects him to; he doesn't want to cart him off to the nearest hospital for shock. "Yeah, she did," he says. 

When Malfoy is too stunned to move, Harry shoves the door open and steps over the threshold. He scans the surroundings—it’s clear it’s a flat Malfoy shares with Greengrass, perhaps for an occasional getaway. He glances at Greengrass’ shoes on the rack, the copies of _Witch Weekly_ on the coffee table, and a large Minnie Mouse soft toy on the sofa.

Malfoy cards his fingers through his messy hair in an attempt to tidy it. He runs a hand over his stubble, fingertips skimming over the dark circles under his eyes. 

"How is your father?" Harry asks, following the other man’s lead and sitting on the sofa. He arches a brow when Malfoy places Minnie Mouse between them.

"Why are you asking? You don’t care about him," Malfoy replies without bite. 

"You're right. I don't," Harry says evenly. "I'm asking because he's someone important to you, and I care about you." 

Malfoy glances away, muttering, "Always saying what's on your mind." He looks down at his lap. "He's stable and resting at home. I wouldn't be here if his condition was critical. Mother cancelled our subscriptions to the papers, for the sake of Father's health." 

Harry fidgets. "How are you?"

Malfoy laughs, a thin and reedy sound. "Deciding if I should just vanish off the face of the earth. I never expected to have my sexuality and the tatters of my wedding splashed over the gossip rags." He stiffens. "I have to salvage it.” He picks up a framed photograph of him and Greengrass laughing and grinning, the towering La Sagrada Familia behind them. “I have to go back.”

"No. You can't," Harry says at once, alarmed. "You can't do that." 

Malfoy puts down the photo, turning incredulous eyes on him. "Excuse me? I can't do that?" he snaps, baring his teeth. "Did you exert any self-control when you stopped my wedding? You went and did that, and I can't even say you’re selfish because you saved the bloody wizarding world!" 

"Don't you turn it around on me," Harry snarls, his muscles going rigid and a familiar heat flushing through his body. "You didn't chase her. Instead, you smiled at me and stayed with me. With me," he says, touching his own chest. "If you really wanted to patch things up with her, you'd be with her now, not wallowing alone like this!"

"You’re not supposed to be back!" Malfoy flings an arm out in agitation. "Aren't you supposed to be trekking through some jungle in some far-flung locale, or… or shagging other blokes halfway around the world? Not here with me, messing me up even more!"

“Do you want me to be shagging someone else?” 

“Of course not!” Malfoy bursts out, and then deflates, shoulders curving inwards. He rests his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. "I was going to marry respectably and settle down. I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon with Astoria. And then you ruined it all!"

It's barely ten minutes, and Malfoy is shouting at him. He knows it’s easy for Malfoy to pin the blame on him, and he reins in his temper. Uncertainty takes centre stage, and Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. "So, I should… leave?” he asks, his voice small. 

"Yes," Malfoy says. He frowns. “No! Fuck, I don't know!" He stretches a hand over his forehead and rubs his temples. Harry sees his own weariness and confusion reflected in downcast grey eyes. "Why are you here?" Malfoy asks.

Harry recalls the softness in Malfoy’s eyes at the Manor gardens, his gorgeous smile directed at Harry instead of his bride. "Because I wanna see you. Because I miss you. Because I keep thinking of you. Never stopped, actually." He runs his tongue over his lips. "Like how you've been thinking about me for the past four years."

Malfoy doesn't reply, so Harry plods on. "Let's stop lying to each other and to ourselves. Our friends, even Astoria, they see what we refuse to acknowledge." He spends a moment marshalling his thoughts, unsure if he should reveal this. But he has always wanted to tell Malfoy this ever since he heard about it. Perhaps this will explain his feelings for Malfoy in the best possible way.

Harry takes a deep breath. "When I was in Osaka, I learnt about the legend of the red thread of fate. It mentions an invisible red string that starts from our heart and goes all the way to our finger." He glances at Malfoy's last finger. "It stretches beyond our bodies, finally intertwining with someone else's red thread. Someone important, bound to you by fate. Someone who has a heartfelt effect on your life.”

Harry avoids mentioning "soulmate", a word that Nowaki used, because he knows the scientist in Malfoy will scoff at it. 

"The thread might stretch. It might tangle. But it will never break," he continues, his heart pounding. "When I heard about this story, I instantly thought of you."

"What?"

"Yeah. Don't you see it?" Harry says, his words increasing in volume and vehemence. "It was a stroke of luck that we survived the war even though we were on opposing sides. Why did McGonagall decide for all eighth years to stay together, which made us closer? Why did Seamus skip that detention, which led to our first kiss?" He chucks Minnie Mouse to the other side of the sofa and moves closer to Malfoy. "I visited so many countries, met so many people, but I didn’t find anyone that felt right.

"Why did I run into you at Barcelona? Why did your boss fall sick? How did I get the posting to London in April? Why did my colleague fall ill in Ireland, where I was supposed to be on the day of your wedding? Why was it so coincidental that there was a Portkey to Wiltshire, close to the Manor, when I needed it the most? Don't you see?" Harry insists, a tinge of desperation in his voice. "It all fits, that—" 

"—that we're soulmates?" Malfoy says in disbelief. He folds his arms across his chest. "If this legend is accurate, then why is everything such a mess? I acknowledge that we can be good for each other,” he continues carefully. “But it’s always at the wrong time, the wrong phase of our lives.” He fixes Harry with a stony gaze. "Are you ready to come home?" 

"Only if there's someone for me to come home to," Harry says at once. 

Malfoy opens and closes his mouth, struggling to find the right words. Drained, he shakes his head, and Harry’s heart sinks. "No. I can't promise you anything now. Astoria, she was…" Malfoy looks at their photo. "She's a big part of my life, and now everything's gone up in smoke. I'm not in the right frame of mind, emotionally and mentally. And my parents, Salazar, my family." He heaves a deep sigh. "I'm so confused. You've been gone for so long, and I don't know how, or even what…" He mumbles something Harry can't catch. "I need time. To sort myself out. We're not eighteen anymore." 

Harry hates how much this sounds like rejection again, like their eighth year, but he knows he can’t force Malfoy. 

"Alright. I'll stay in Lisbon. I'll wait for you for as long as I can. You’ve never told me how you truly feel about me, but all I know is that…" Harry’s pulse speeds, and he gulps audibly, hoping that he isn’t going too far. "Is that I can't change how… how I love you." 

Malfoy's eyes widen, his mouth forming the word _love._

Yes. It took a long time for Harry to figure it out, that the indecipherable, enigmatic emotion that he felt that night in the Room of Requirement was indeed love. 

Four years later, and Malfoy is still the knot in his heart that he's trying to untangle.

"I need time," Malfoy repeats, more to himself than to Harry. 

“Okay.” Harry sees himself out. Before he closes the door, he looks at Malfoy, slumped on the sofa and his back turned towards him.

Harry was hoping that things would end differently, but…

Even though Malfoy is gazing at the photo of him and Greengrass, he has a hand on the sofa, right on the spot where Harry vacated seconds ago. 

Things are never going to be easy between them.

* * *

Harry steps off the tiny, winding staircase to the small viewing area after squeezing in the Santa Justa lift. He inhales the fresh air, invigorating after queueing for close to ninety minutes. He finds a quiet corner, away from the small knots of families, couples and tourists, ducking to avoid a selfie stick to his face. 

He leans over the railing and admires the panoramic view, turning his head to look at everything. The sun is setting, bathing half of the landscape in a warm golden glow. The view is a lovely sprawl of light-coloured buildings with brown roofs, and the stretch of the Tagus River. There’s a plaza with a towering white structure, the people milling around appearing as small as dots. 

It's Harry’s first time in Lisbon, and he spent the past five days exploring the city. Walking in Lisbon is an experience in itself—the cobblestone roads, uphill streets, snaking alleyways and criss-crossing traffic and trams. The roads can be so narrow that Harry once plastered himself along the wall to let a tram squeeze past. 

Along with scores of tourists, he took Tram 28 to the São Jorge Castle. He stumbled on _miradouros_ and enjoyed the breeze fluttering on his skin and the scenery from each viewpoint, sometimes while eating a Santini’s ice-cream. It’s strange, being in a new city and not thinking about work. Nevertheless, there’s a restlessness bristling within him with each passing day. 

It’s almost like he's here for a holiday. 

He enjoyed his time at Belem, strolling past small cruise boats docked at the Doca do Bom Sucesso, people whizzing on roller skates and tourists in sunglasses lounging on the steps outside the Belem Tower. There was a lively three-piece band playing Muggle rock songs, and Harry had a good time listening to them. 

For tea, he popped into Pasteis de Belem for delicious Portuguese egg tarts and thick hot chocolate. He thought of Malfoy and the sweets his mother would send him at Hogwarts, and before he knew what he was doing, he was buying a bag of egg tarts.

That evening, the lights were on in Malfoy's flat. Harry raised his fist to knock, but hesitated. After a long moment of standing outside his door like a loon, he hung the bag on the doorknob, knocked and ran off, hiding behind a car like some lovesick stalker. Malfoy opened the door, looked into the bag and scanned his surroundings. He took the bag and smiled, before turning and closing the door.

That smile was like a healing salve for his heart. 

When Harry returned the next day for a possible glimpse of Malfoy, the house was empty, but there was a bag on the doorknob. He peeked at the contents, his heart lifting at the treacle tart. He took it back to his hotel and ate it, and it was the sweetest treacle tart he'd ever had. 

It's ironic how they're both in the same city for once, but Malfoy feels so far away.

A nudge at Harry's ankle tugs him from his gloomy thoughts, and he looks down at a soft toy in the shape of a chubby yellow dragon with large flappy wings. He picks it up and looks around for its owner, who is a small girl dashing towards him so fast that her long auburn hair streams behind her.

"It's my Dragonite!" she declares, flashing him a toothy grin. "My brother threw my Pokémon away because I didn't let him eat my ice-cream!"

Harry smiles and returns it. She cheers, thanks him and runs back to her family. He chuckles when she whacks her brother over the head with her Dragonite.

His gaze travels from her family to the other people on the viewing platform. Seeing all the couples amplifies the loneliness gnawing away at him. His smile dims. Doing things alone, such as sight-seeing and trying out new cuisines, never bothered him like this.

He turns his attention to the scenery, at the cars on the roads, the people walking on the streets below him, returning home or going for dinner after a long day of work. They'll wake up tomorrow morning, falling into the same comforting, humdrum routine.

No matter what happens, life marches on, and the world continues to turn.

Pansy Parkinson sent Harry an owl yesterday, containing her name and only three words. 

_Wait for him._

And so, with an uncharacteristic patience, Harry continues to drift aimlessly in Lisbon.

He waits for three more days before slipping a letter under Malfoy's door.

* * *

It's raining. 

Harry waits, as still as the statue at the Praça do Comércio.

The drizzle has morphed into a shower. He sits on a bench at the plaza, facing the Rua Augusta Arch. He watches as others run for shelter, tugging the hoods of their sweatshirts over their heads or shielding themselves with bags. The increasingly heavy rain drenches his shirt, turning his jeans a shade darker. 

He shivers when a gust of wind blows, but he doesn't move. 

Over the next twenty minutes, two kind-hearted people with umbrellas offer to bring him to wherever he needs to go, but it's Harry's luck that he's not going anywhere.

At least not now. 

His letter said 7 pm. 

Harry closes his eyes briefly, fighting a wave of emotion as he recalls his words penned on paper. 

_It's tiring waiting for you, Draco._

The Impervius Charm on his glasses is fading.

_I made it clear in eighth year that I wanted you in every sense of the word. Asked you to come with me, only to be rejected. You lied to me, said that our first time meant nothing to you. But it did, to me. Still means so much to me._

He hangs his head, rain dripping down the crown of his head, pooling around his feet. 

_Ron and Hermione told me about how you kept asking after me. Don't be embarrassed, because I asked them about you, too._

Harry shudders when rain trickles between his shoulder blades. 

_It's been four years, but I stopped your wedding. I dropped everything to come to Lisbon for you. I've never been good with words, but I hope that doing all of this shows you how much you mean to me. But I can't keep chasing you and not getting anything in return._

He suddenly looks up, blinking rain out of his eyes.

_Have you made up your mind? Perhaps you have, and you don't know how to end things with me. You've never liked difficult conversations, at least with me. Besides, we’re more used to fighting or kissing, not talking._

There's someone tall and blond approaching. His heart leaping, Harry springs to his feet, anticipation rising.

_I'll be there at 7 pm. If you don't appear, I'll get it. I'll leave Lisbon and I won’t look back._

It's not Malfoy. Harry collapses on the bench, his chin lowered to his chest in defeat. He was so hopeful at the beginning. He even had a nice restaurant in mind to take Malfoy out for dinner.

_I'll know that you really meant what you said that night in the Room—that we can never be each other's in this lifetime._

It's getting colder, but he doesn't cast a Warming Charm. Perhaps it'll numb the pain in the pieces of his heart. 

Harry withdraws a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket. He unfolds Parkinson's note, gazing at the same three words with dull eyes. He's been holding onto it for the past week like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

"I can't wait for him forever." 

_I keep thinking what would've happened if I stayed in Hogwarts._

Raindrops fall on the parchment, drenching the ink. Her words blur, finally dissolving into an indecipherable smear of black on a wet parchment fraying at the edges. 

_I would have accepted your invitation to the Leaving Ball._

Harry finally looks at his watch. He's been waiting for an hour. 

With heavy limbs, he stands up slowly, his clothes sticking to him like a second skin. The downpour has washed away any stray hope he still harbours. Misery surrounds him like a kidnapper’s cloak. A part of him isn't surprised, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. 

_I guess I have my answer,_ Harry thinks, a corner of his lips quirking up in a small, bitter smile of resignation. He trudges towards the nearest Metro, his socks squelching in his shoes. 

He's a fool, a lovesick fool for Malfoy. 

High above him, the sky is a sad shatter of stars, and the moon hides behind the clouds.

Lisbon is beautiful, but he can’t return, because Lisbon will always remind him of this heart-wrenching moment of overwhelming disappointment and crushing sorrow. 

Malfoy was heartbreak the moment he met him. 

Harry bumps into people as he shuffles with the gait of a sleepwalker. Parkinson's note is still clenched in his fist. He squeezes it, and water leaks out, falling into a puddle.

He bins the sodden ball of parchment.

He'll return to the hotel, pack his things again and get the first Portkey to London. He'll receive his next posting from Kingsley. Even though he’s more travel-weary than before, he has to drown himself in his work in the face of Malfoy's final rejection four years into the making. 

Strange how the rain on his lips tastes salty. 

Without looking back, Harry turns into the shelter of the Terreiro do Paço station. 

If only he stayed for ten more minutes, because there Draco Malfoy is, panting as he dashes through the downpour, his cloak billowing behind him and Harry’s name on his lips. He slips on the slick cobblestones, almost falling, but he rights himself quickly. 

He mutters apologies and _excuse me, please,_ jostling people and dodging children. Draco's blond head stands out, a stark contrast to the open flare of multi-coloured umbrellas on the street. Patrons sitting in toasty-warm restaurants point at him, this dark blur rocketing down Rua Augusta.

If only Harry suggested 8 pm instead, if only Lucius Malfoy didn't have his heart attack back in Wiltshire in the early hours of this morning, if only the nurses didn't take one look at his Dark Mark and purposely schedule him for a later slot for his surgery, if only Draco's Portkey from London arrived earlier, if only he had run faster—

"Harry!" Draco shouts when he bursts into the plaza, a few steps away from the bench where Harry was sitting just minutes ago. He runs a frantic loop around the plaza, his chest heaving and drenched hair plastered to the nape of his neck. 

"No, no," he mutters, shaking his head, a hand pressing into his side at a stitch. He eyes his surroundings wildly, pushing his fingers into his hair in frustration. "Harry!" he yells, cupping his hands around his mouth, ignoring the stares from people under the awnings. 

But his voice is lost in the roar of the rain and wind.

Draco swears and breaks into a run again, hurtling off in the opposite direction that Harry took. 

And so, the red thread of fate twined between their fingers, worn thin and faded to a light pink, stretches just that little bit more.

* * *

**/tbc**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All songs listed here belong to their respective owners.
> 
> Scene 1 “Barcelona, December”: Spring Day (Brit Rock Remix)  
Scene 3 “London, April”: RM & NELL - everythingoes  
Scene 4 “Harry jabs”: FAKE LOVE (Rocking Vibe Mix)  
Scene 5 “Lisbon, Portugal”: RM & V - 4 O'Clock  
Scene 6 “Harry steps”: RM - seoul (prod. HONNE)  
Scene 7 "It's raining": RM & Yuiko - Umbrella


	3. Home

Harry roots around in his duffel bag, fishing out a clean pair of pants. He regards them for a moment, wrinkling his nose in contemplation. Someone clears their throat, and he looks up to see Hermione at the door. "Someone's here to see you," she says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully and stepping to the side. 

And this is how Draco Malfoy finds Harry—plopped on the guest bed in Ron and Hermione's home, holding up a pair of tiny red pants patterned with Golden Snitches, with an especially big Snitch at the crotch area. 

Malfoy stares at the pants, and then at Harry. 

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," Hermione says behind Malfoy. She catches Harry's eye and winks, giving him a thumbs-up before leaving. He jolts into action and shoves his pants into his bag. 

"Good evening." Malfoy is still standing at the threshold of the room. He gestures to Harry's bag. Harry’s wand, wallet and phone are on the nightstand; it's clear that he’s packed and ready to go. "Where are you off to now?" 

It takes a moment for Harry to respond. He can't believe that Malfoy is here, minutes before Xu Jian will ring him to provide details of the Portkey. "Shanghai. Two months." 

"Oh." Malfoy looks down at his shoes. "That's awfully far, and for an awfully long time." He steps into the room, standing at the foot of the bed. "I read your letter in Lisbon." 

Harry inwardly flinches, the sting of rejection and rain-drenched skin from two days ago still fresh in his mind. With leftover hurt and disappointment piercing through him, he nods at Malfoy harshly. “Yeah?” 

"I reached the plaza at eight fifteen." Malfoy indicates the empty space beside Harry. "May I?" 

_What? He was there?_ "Sure," Harry says faintly, his mind whirling at the knowledge that Malfoy turned up after all.

Malfoy sits down on the bed, an arm's length away from him. "My father had a heart attack early that morning, so I rushed back to Britain. Mungo's was an absolute nightmare as usual. Surgery was late and there were complications. After that, I took the first Portkey back to Lisbon, but you weren’t there." 

"Oh." Harry grabs a pillow and fiddles with the corners. "I left at eight." Despite himself, there's a thread of hope winding around his heart. Silence settles between them. He continues toying with the pillow, while Malfoy looks around the guest room, his hands clenched on his knees in apparent tension. Harry asks after his father.

"Mother is with him at Mungo's.” Malfoy turns his family ring on his finger, light catching on its sleek surface. Even though his halting, stumbling words are meant for Harry, he directs them to his ring. “I didn't know if you were still in London, so I hurried here when Father’s condition stabilised. Lisbon was… well… I wanted to…" He finally looks at Harry, his voice faltering at Harry’s intense gaze. "That's why I'm here." He clears his throat. "Waiting for each other like this. It's tiring, isn't it?" He dredges up a weak laugh, eyes darting away. "Merlin, you're right," he mutters, stretching a hand and rubbing his brow. "It's hard having difficult conversations with you.”

Harry's phone chimes, signalling a message. Malfoy glances at it and frowns. He speaks, fast and urgent, his tumbling words unchaining four years’ worth of emotion and realisation. 

"I saw Father lying on that hospital bed, and I thought, what if it were me instead? What would I regret?" Grey eyes trail over Harry as he talks. “You. I’d regret you. When I didn't see you at the plaza in Lisbon, I panicked. Knowing that I would never see you again, talk to you again, that it’d end like this…” He shakes his head. "Couldn't leave it like this. You're always the one running—either running away from me or towards me—and like what you said in your letter, it must be tiring, getting nothing in return." He drops his hands into his lap. “So, I thought you should know this before you run off to Shanghai.”

Harry's heart stumbles like an out-of-sync ballerina. He shifts closer to Malfoy, his movements slow and wary. Is Malfoy actually here, spilling out a confession of his feelings for him? "Did you plan to turn up even if your father didn't have his heart attack?" he asks. 

"It took me a long time to decide, but yes." Malfoy inches towards Harry too. "Thank you for the egg tarts. They're my favourite." 

"I knew you’d like them. The treacle tart was brilliant,” Harry says, moving his leg until their knees are touching. "I toured Lisbon alone. I missed you. Not just at Lisbon, but for the past four years. On and off," he says, his heart rate increasing when Malfoy presses his thigh against Harry’s.

Malfoy's lips quirk up in the beginnings of a smile. "I missed you too."

They share a shy smile, their faces engulfed in lovely pink blushes.

Malfoy licks his lips, and Harry's eyes follow the dart of his tongue. Just looking at him is enough to remind Harry of that tongue lapping at his prick. There’s a distinct whiff of vanilla, and Harry's cock begins to fill. Malfoy leans towards him, tilting his head—

Harry's phone rings. 

Harry swears under his breath. He lunges at his phone and answers Xu Jian's call, noting the details of his Portkey to Shanghai, which will activate in fifteen minutes. He hangs up and sighs.

"Bad timing as usual, huh?" Malfoy says.

"Story of our lives," Harry quips, stuffing his wallet and wand into his pockets. Although things seem promising, he has to know. "What about your parents? Their expectations?" 

Malfoy's smile dims. "I'll talk to them. Mother wants me to be happy, and her feelings towards you aren't as antagonistic as Father's." His shoulders slump. "He'll need a lot more convincing, but I'll talk to them." He gestures to Harry's bag. "What about you? Are you ready to come home?" 

"Only if I can come home to you," Harry replies. He pauses, relishing the pleased glow on Malfoy's cheeks. "It could work out? We could work out?" 

"Yes, but we have many things to sort out,” Malfoy says, and Harry releases the breath that he didn't know he was holding. "We'll talk after you return from Shanghai. See where to go from here." Worry seeps into grey eyes. "Will it be dangerous? Like Melbourne?" 

Harry grins. "I'll make it back. Don't worry. If it means seeing you again." He thinks of something and frowns, kicking himself for choosing the furthest and longest mission. "Two months is pretty long. What if things change?" he asks, thinking of Astoria Greengrass and Malfoy's parents. 

"It's been four years. I guess I could wait a little more," Malfoy murmurs, flashing Harry a smile like a careful confession. He raises a hand, his palm caressing Harry’s beard on his jawline. 

“Like it?” Harry asks, a playful lilt to his voice.

Malfoy hums, his fingertips sweeping the bottom of Harry’s cheeks, thumb grazing over Harry’s upper lip. “You’re fit either way. The beard just makes you… dangerous. Tall, dark and handsome.” He arches a brow, amused. “Maybe not the tall part.” 

Annoyed, Harry huffs, before a wicked thought strikes him. “Sure, my height isn’t impressive, but I don’t recall you having issues with other aspects of my… size,” he says suggestively, smirking. He places a hand on Malfoy’s waist and squeezes. “Hmm?”

“Cheeky.” Malfoy matches his grin. “Can I write to you?”

"Yeah." Harry's gaze sharpens, and he wraps his arm around Malfoy's waist, pulling him closer. "You can do whatever you want to me," he rasps, the heated arousal and trembling anticipation thrumming between them turning his voice low and husky. 

Harry's phone chimes again, and he sighs when he lets go of Malfoy and picks up his bag. They leave the room. Malfoy nods at Ron and Hermione at the living room, bidding them a good night. 

"Two months," he says when they're at the door.

"Yeah. Two months," Harry agrees, taking his hand and squeezing it. When Malfoy gives him one last lingering gaze and strides away, Harry bites his lower lip as he checks out Malfoy’s long, sexy legs and the way his shirt stretches over his shoulder blades. Harry presses the heel of his hand on his erection. He jumps when Hermione appears on his left, and Ron on his right. They watch Malfoy as he leaves, with Harry craning his neck when he turns the corner. 

Harry closes the door and looks at the curious expressions on his friends' faces. Hoping that he's not jumping the gun, he takes a deep breath and says, "Looks like I'm coming home after Shanghai." 

Hermione squeals and launches herself into his arms, while Ron grins. "It's about time, mate."

Harry buries his face into Hermione's neck and inhales the minty scent of her shampoo, closing his eyes and smiling. He's transported back to their eighth year at the Great Lake, when he first told them that he's leaving Britain.

_Yeah, it is._

* * *

Fuck, it's those jeans from their eighth year. 

At the sight of Malfoy in those tight navy-blue jeans and same white T-shirt, Harry's mouth falls open, his eyes widening to soak in every detail. 

A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across Malfoy's face. "You look pretty good yourself," he offers by way of greeting. He steps aside, allowing Harry entry into his home. Harry follows him to the sofa, eyeing his pert arse and devastatingly long legs—legs that Harry wants wrapped around him as soon as possible. Harry sits down, requesting a Firewhisky when Malfoy asks him if he'd like a drink. 

Malfoy, bearing two Firewhiskys, settles down on the sofa beside him. Harry takes a deep gulp of his drink, grinning when grey eyes swivel to his throat, down to the dip of his collarbones and the vee of his T-shirt. 

"So…" Harry says, putting the bottle down on the coffee table. He still can’t believe that after this rollercoaster of emotions, he’s here with Malfoy, and they could really be together after all this time. Malfoy sips on his drink, and he lowers his lashes, his lips hiking up into a shy smile when he pulls away from the bottle. 

Harry’s heart thuds with longing.

Draco is the one, and will always be the one for him.

"I told Kingsley I'm moving back to London until further notice. I'll be based here now," Harry says, eyes fastened on the skin just beneath Malfoy's collarbone. He remembers how flushed that particular spot can get when Malfoy is on the verge of orgasm.

"I talked to my parents," Malfoy says. "Mother's coming around slowly. Father doesn't approve, but it’s not an outright no." 

Harry releases the breath that was bottled in his chest. His stomach flutters with what he thinks is hope, and pent-up energy rattles within him. He takes another gulp of his Firewhisky, relishing the alcohol coursing in his blood. “So… we could work out? For real?”

“There are still other things to consider, but yes. Yes, I think we could.” Malfoy’s eyes are glossy and bright, his lips parted as he rakes a hot-blooded gaze all over Harry—from his tousled hair (which Harry styled to make it look freshly-shagged), the double piercings on his earlobe, and down to his body. There’s a reason for Harry’s outfit tonight; black jeans and a black T-shirt that brings out the broadness of his shoulders, the firmness of his biceps and the slopes of his chest, highlighting his physical attributes that Malfoy fancies.

“What sort of things?” Harry’s skin heats with the attention. 

“Things like… you know…” Malfoy mutters. Grey eyes glimmer with intent when Harry toys with the hem of his shirt, revealing a strip of tan skin and the waistband of his pants. “Uh.”

"You said we should talk. But you can't keep your eyes off me," Harry says, lifting a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Hey," he says around a grin, waving a hand in Malfoy's face. 

Malfoy blinks out of his daze, tearing his gaze reluctantly from Harry's shoulders. "What?" He skates long fingers across his flushed cheeks and takes a fortifying sip of alcohol. He lowers the bottle to the sofa, clasping it loosely in his hands.

"You said we should talk," Harry murmurs. He stretches his left arm out on the back of the sofa and rests the side of his face on his upper arm, peering up at Malfoy from under his lashes. Malfoy simply stares at him. Harry's mouth curves into a lazy grin, pleased at how easily flustered the other man is.

"Yes, we should," Malfoy says, his voice strained. "I can't think straight—" He rolls his eyes good-naturedly at Harry’s snicker. "When you look like this," he says, gesturing to Harry with his bottle. "How was Shanghai?" 

Malfoy's thighs clench, and Harry glances at the movement. Lust shudders through him when he realises Malfoy is hard. "Felt bloody long. Knowing that you were waiting for me. Sending me letters like that when I'm so far away." Harry's grin widens into something predatory, and he spreads his thighs just enough for Malfoy to see what he's offering. 

"Oh," Malfoy whispers on an exhale when he spots Harry's erection. He rubs his neck, his fingers trailing down to his chest. "It wasn't much. Just said that I thought of you every night."

"I thought of you every night too," Harry says, licking his lips. "Thought of you when I was in bed in my hotel room, in the shower. In boring meetings and stake-outs. Thought of you so hard." 

At his emphasis on the last two words, Malfoy bites his lower lip. He deposits his bottle on the table, holding his heated gaze with Harry. 

Harry lifts his head from his arm, his stomach clenching in expectation. Adrenaline jets through his veins, lust coils tight in his belly, his muscles are rigid and his nerves are on high alert, ready to pounce. He sees his own thirst and desire mirrored in dilated grey eyes, anticipation and four years' worth of sexual tension stretched taut between them like a frayed thread just seconds away from snapping. 

A hot sear of arousal shatters through him when Malfoy touches the tip of his tongue on his upper lip, his murmur full of promise and mouth quirking up in a sly smile that has all of Harry's synapses firing. "Let's talk tomorrow morning, shall we?"

"C'mere," Harry growls. The specifics can definitely be ironed out tomorrow—the important thing is he’s staying in London and Malfoy’s parents haven’t disowned him. 

That, and the fact that he can’t go another second without touching Malfoy. 

Malfoy darts forward in a smooth, fluid motion, swinging his legs around Harry and making himself comfortable in his lap. There's a dull thunk behind Malfoy, and they both glance at the sound. Harry's bottle has tipped over on the table and rolled onto the ground, spilling Firewhisky on Malfoy's expensive-looking carpet. 

But Malfoy can't care less. He turns back to Harry, cups his face and sweeps him up in a kiss so intense and hot that it ignites Harry's senses into a slow, simmering burn. Their teeth click together at the first contact, noses nudging and heads tilted as they deepen the kiss instantly. There's no shy hesitation, just two men clinging onto each other and making up for lost time. Malfoy's left hand strokes the back of Harry's neck, fingers curling into his hair while his other hand caresses his abdomen and chest.

"You're even fitter now," Malfoy murmurs, resting both hands on Harry's shoulders and squeezing. Harry grins and flexes his biceps, an invitation for Malfoy to feel him up, and he does so rather enthusiastically. "Arse," Malfoy says, his cheeks going pink with pleasure when Harry rubs his hands up and down Malfoy's sides.

"Speaking about arses." Harry pulls him back into a feverish kiss, and he goes lower until his palms are cupping Malfoy's arse, kneading his cheeks. Malfoy moans, pressing their chests together. He winds his arms around Harry’s neck and rolls his hips, grinding their clothed pricks together. Harry's thighs fall apart even further, and he thrusts upwards, desperate for more of that sweet friction. 

Malfoy touches Harry's jawline, and he breaks the kiss, their lips separating with a soft sound. "You shaved. I wondered why.” 

"Yeah, before I came. I don’t know how you feel about beard burn, and… er…" he trails off, his face warming up. 

"And?" Malfoy prompts. He runs a thumb over Harry's bottom lip, just like he used to do, and that intimate gesture makes Harry throw his caution to the wind. 

"Would be easier to… to rim you, if the chance came up tonight. Your thighs are ticklish.”

"What?" Malfoy says, his eyes wide and round, his arms falling limply to his sides.

"We don't have to if you don't wanna," Harry backtracks hastily. "It's not like I came here expecting a shag, but if things turned out like this…" He gestures to Malfoy in his lap. "I already wanted to rim you in the Room, but I thought I could save that for next time. I didn't even know the proper term for it. I wanna lick you, make you feel good in every way possible." He pauses. "Anyone done that to you?"

At Malfoy's slow shake of his head, Harry swallows, arousal crashing through him at the thought that he'll be Malfoy's first for this too. "Can I, tonight?"

"Harry, I don't think you understand." Malfoy's tone is cool, collected and controlled, a coquettish smirk winking on his lips. He presses two fingers, his index and middle finger, right in the middle of Harry's chest, and then slowly walks them up to the base of his throat. He leans forward, his lips pressed below Harry's earlobe. He whispers Harry’s name, a sound like liquid sex that goes straight to Harry's cock. “You can do anything you want to me,” he purrs, his voice as light and seductive as molten chocolate wrapped in luxurious silk. 

A wave of pure desire floods Harry’s system. 

"Bloody fuck," he snarls. He pulls Malfoy into another rough and hard kiss, full of teeth and tongue, groans and gasps, wandering hands and hard pricks. Malfoy withdraws only when Harry's head is spinning with the force of being so thoroughly kissed and groped, with both his lips and his cock throbbing. 

Harry doesn't even know when his shirt became hiked up, his jeans yanked open, the waistband of his pants tugged down. All he knows is that they are. He straightens his glasses, not wanting to miss anything when Malfoy kisses his way down his chest, the heat of his mouth shivering on his skin. Malfoy removes Harry’s shoes and socks. Harry’s breath comes short and shallow, his heart hammering away in his chest when he lifts his hips, allowing Malfoy to tug his jeans and pants down to his ankles, before he kicks them off.

“Did you get bigger?” His eyes half-lidded and smoky with desire, Malfoy’s hungry gaze admires Harry’s cock, which twitches under the scrutiny. 

Harry releases a strangled laugh. “You know what they say. Absence makes the dick bigger.” He winces at how ridiculous it sounds, but his brain isn’t working at full capacity. “I don’t think so.”

“As long as it can still fit in my mouth.” Malfoy runs his fingertips over Harry’s inner thighs, and Harry’s hips jerk involuntarily, a groan escaping his throat. Malfoy’s eyes twinkle with delight at his responsiveness. 

“It will. It has to,” Harry says desperately, opening his legs to grant Malfoy more space to kneel between them. This isn’t a dream. It’s really happening, right here, right now. He’s seconds away from having his cock sucked by Malfoy. “Please. Don’t make me wait. Been so long.” 

His words spiral up into a soft cry when Malfoy wraps a hand around his shaft, stroking him slow and sweet. He circles a thumb around Harry's slit, spreading pre-come over the head. He rests his left cheek on Harry's right thigh as he fondles him, alternating between hard strokes and gentle, barely-there grazes with the back of his fingers, his lips so close that Harry can feel his rapid, warm breaths ghosting over his prick. Malfoy winks at him and nuzzles his cock, his closed mouth skimming his balls and sliding up and down his shaft.

"Didn’t used to be such a tease," Harry croaks.

Malfoy grins. "We didn't have time. Remember how much we rushed, especially in the common room?" He kisses the crown of his cock. "We don't have to be quiet anymore." 

Harry bucks his hips up, eager for more, but Malfoy seals his lips. Harry releases an embarrassing whine. "Give me something to be loud for. You can do better." 

Malfoy chuckles, a low and throaty sound, eyes glinting at the challenge. "Oh, I will." 

And then he presses down on Harry's hips and swallows him to the root. 

"Fuck!" Harry cries out, his nerves singing with the sudden sensation of being engulfed in Malfoy's velvety warm mouth. The head of his cock hits the back of his throat, and Malfoy moans, triggering a gasp from Harry.

They look so fucking hot—Harry sprawled out, thighs splayed apart, his head flopped on the back of the sofa, his eyes closed and mouth open in an ‘o’ of pleasure, his hands tugging at soft blond hair. Malfoy kneels in front of him, his head bobbing as he sucks, licks and kisses Harry’s prick, his hands groping him all over—his balls, thighs, legs, abdomen. 

When Malfoy pulls off with a pop, Harry opens his eyes and looks down at him with a giddy smile. Malfoy pushes his lips out in a pout, and Harry groans. He presses his palm to his temple, as if the sight is too hot to process—those lush rosebud lips of a porn star, glistening with saliva and pre-come, paired with that sexy, satisfied slash of a smirk. 

"Still think about this?" Malfoy asks. He starts to stroke Harry. “That night in the Great Hall?” 

Harry nods fervently, his cock stiffening further at the memory. “You were gagging for it.” Malfoy threw him down on the Slytherin table and sucked him off with so much enthusiasm that Harry came in record time. Malfoy eyed his spent cock, made a desperate sound and swallowed him again, ignoring Harry’s surprised gasp and sucking him for what felt like ages until he wrung another orgasm from Harry. 

“I was. Spent the whole day thinking about blowing you,” Malfoy murmurs. He drops a trail of wet kisses from the base of Harry’s cock up to the tip. “Just want to make it good for you.”

"You do, Draco. You always make it so good." Harry tucks two fingers under Malfoy's chin. "You know what I need now, yeah?" Anticipation and pleasure circulate in Harry’s bloodstream like a drug. "Give it to me. Give it to me good."

Grey eyes darken with intent. "Look at me. You always come so hard when you're looking at me." He resumes sucking Harry with renewed vigour, his tongue painting broad, slick stripes up and down his cock. Harry gulps as he sears this image into his memory—Malfoy's hollowed-out cheeks, messy hair, eyes hooded with lust and fluttering lashes, his plump lips wrapped around his cock and tongue peeking out as he swirls it along Harry’s cock. 

"C'mon," Harry growls, tightening his grip on the back of Malfoy's head and pushing his hips up. "C'mon.” He bites his lip when Malfoy releases a long, pent-up moan around his cock. They fall into an intoxicating rhythm of Harry thrusting into Malfoy's mouth and Malfoy bobbing his head, the flat of his tongue sliding relentlessly on Harry's slick cock, hitting the back of his throat with every other thrust. 

"Just like that," Harry whispers, his balls tightening and his orgasm rushing to the surface. "Close. So close. So good. Don't stop. Gonna, gonna, Draco—" 

Malfoy's fingernails sink into his thigh, and it's the hypnotising pull of those grey eyes that draws him in, telling him that Malfoy is the only one in the world who holds the key to his arousal, bringing him this much addictive pleasure, so much that Harry can’t bear it any longer—

He lets out a sharp, broken cry as he spills down Malfoy's gulping throat. After a moment, Malfoy withdraws and quirks his lips, allowing a line of come to trickle down his chin. Harry grins lazily; he loves it whenever Malfoy does that. Harry tugs him up from the floor and hauls him into his lap. He wipes away his come from Malfoy's lips and dashes away the tears at the corners of Malfoy’s eyes from having his mouth open for so long. "Even better than I remembered," Harry says, kissing him briefly.

"Yeah?" Malfoy says, his voice hoarse. He places Harry’s hand on his own erection. "I'm still hard, you selfish brute. You used to be more thoughtful.”

Harry flashes him an impish grin and rubs him through his pants. “We’re just getting started." 

"Tell me, Harry," Malfoy whispers, and a thrill shivers through Harry at the sound of his name. "What fantasy makes you come the hardest?" 

Those exact words, said in that same breathy manner, transports Harry back in time to a Hogwarts classroom on that fateful night. Before he knows it, he's speaking, conjuring his words from the depths of his memory. "It's when I'm fucking you so hard and good that you forget your name." 

"Fuck me." Malfoy follows up with the same reply. "Fuck me 'til the only name I remember is yours." With a sly smile, he climbs off Harry’s lap, yanks him up by the front of his shirt and leads him to the bedroom.

Malfoy lies back on the pillows and drags Harry down on top of him, sweeping him up into another one of those intense, toe-curling kisses. Harry makes quick work of Malfoy's clothes, tossing them into a careless heap on the floor. He glances at the nightstand, blinking at the assortment of items—a box of tissue, a bottle of water, a tube of lube and a clean towel. "I'm not the only one hoping for a shag tonight," he says.

"Mmhmm.” Malfoy ruts against him, sliding their bare pricks together as he tugs up the hem of Harry's shirt. "I took tomorrow off from work, because I was hoping you'd stay the night." He nips Harry’s earlobe, his breath hot and heavy on his neck. "Cleaning Charm's done, too."

"So eager," Harry murmurs, staying still to let Malfoy remove his glasses and shirt.

"I wasn't the one who shaved for tonight. And for what?" Malfoy asks playfully, pretending to think. 

"Turn over." 

Malfoy does so, landing on his palms and knees on the bed. Harry's breath hitches, lust sparking in him. It’s his first time seeing Draco like this; tousled blond hair, pale expanse of skin on display, simply begging to be licked and kissed, the graceful arch of his spine, leading down to the curve of that irresistible arse and those long, shapely legs.

Malfoy makes a sound of impatience, rolling his hips once and giving an eager wiggle of his arse. Harry snaps into action and positions himself behind him. He squeezes Malfoy’s arse and presses his thumbs onto pale skin, exposing Malfoy. Harry lowers his head and releases a puff of air at Malfoy's entrance, so he knows what's coming. Malfoy tenses, before stretching his legs backwards and relaxing. Harry gathers some saliva on the tip of his tongue, and then touches his tongue to Malfoy's hole. 

Malfoy's long, drawn-out moan is music to his ears. 

Grinning, Harry increases the pressure, his tongue swirling in tight, concentrated circles. He pulls away to wet his lips, and then dives back in, burying his face between Malfoy's arse-cheeks. There's a faint taste of mint, and Harry groans, his head going up and down as he widens his strokes, his tongue now licking Malfoy's crease. 

"Yeah, Harry, eat me good, oh yes," Malfoy says around a gasp, his breathy sighs escalating to a yelp when Harry smacks his arse. Harry soothes it with a kiss and another long, lingering lick on his cleft. "Fuck, that's good, so good."

Harry alternates between concentrating on Malfoy's hole and sweeping the flat of his tongue along his crease in a steady pace. Malfoy clutches his pillow, his head hanging as he bounces his hips, pressing his arse back to Harry’s face in a plea for more. 

Harry has one hand on the bed for support while the other is busy squeezing Malfoy’s arse and stroking Malfoy’s cock. Harry rolls his balls across his palm with delicate, feather-light touches. Going by Malfoy’s sighs and moans, he likes this combination of rimming and wanking very much.

"Blow me," Malfoy demands, pulling away. He flops onto his back and opens his legs. "Suck my cock." Harry accedes to the request at once, slotting between his thighs and sinking down to his elbows.

"Why not both?" Harry indicates a pillow with his chin, and Malfoy tucks it under his hips. “Up,” Harry says, and Malfoy gets the hint, lifting his legs up and tucking his forearms under the back of his knees, holding himself open. Harry smirks and swallows Malfoy’s prick into his mouth, sucking him for a long moment before he dips his head, sliding his tongue down to his balls. He licks them briefly, before going even lower, teasing Malfoy’s entrance and going all the way back up to Malfoy’s cockhead. He repeats this circuit over and over, rendering Malfoy speechless except for wordless groans and cries of his name.

Harry divides his attention equally between his arse and cock, faltering only when Malfoy’s arms begin to tremble and his gasps become increasingly high-pitched, more swears spilling from his posh mouth. Harry then focuses on Malfoy's prick, engulfing it in his mouth, relaxing his throat to take him deep. Malfoy's legs fall to the bed when Harry swirls his tongue around the shaft and sucks hard, just the way he likes it. 

Three sharp gasps, another garbled cry of his name and a hard buck of his hips, and Malfoy comes, flooding Harry's mouth. Harry swallows it with thick, loud gulps, and then kisses Malfoy’s inner thigh. He scoots up the bed to grab the bottle of water. As he drinks, he eyes Malfoy, who is basking in the afterglow—limbs sprawled out, looking sated and completely relaxed. Harry purposely lets some water trickle down his throat, pleased when Malfoy’s covetous gaze tracks the glide of water, going lower to Harry’s chest and erection. 

Harry offers the bottle to Malfoy, who shakes his head. He replaces the water and grabs the lube. “Ready for another go?” 

Malfoy shivers at the promise in Harry's voice, and he raises an arm, tucking his hand underneath his head as he watches Harry roll the tube of lube between his palms, warming it. "Go slow."

"Yeah. It's been a long time since you were with another bloke.” Harry coats his fingers and drops the lube on the other side of the bed. He shuffles forward, capturing Malfoy's lips in a chaste kiss. He pets Malfoy’s rim, circling it.

"No." Malfoy says, looking deep into confused green eyes. "I've been with other men after you and before Astoria, but I topped." 

Harry's fingers stop moving. "What? You mean…" 

"Yes. Only you. Inside me." Malfoy smiles, the affection shining in his eyes making Harry's heart expand with emotion. "No one else."

"Fuck, Draco," Harry mutters, dropping his forehead into the crook between Malfoy's neck and shoulder. He picks up the pace again, stroking Malfoy's entrance. "Fuck," he says, with feeling. “Gonna be so tight for me.” 

"Yes, so good for… oh!" Malfoy gasps when Harry eases a finger in, working him open in a gentle, tender slide. He sprinkles a necklace of kisses on the base of Malfoy's throat when he adds another finger. Harry kisses him on the mouth, swallowing his moan when he begins to scissor his index and middle fingers. Malfoy is so tight and warm, and the thought of pushing his throbbing cock inside sends another wave of lust thundering through Harry.

"Remember when I hit your prostate? We didn't know what it was called then, but you looked so good," Harry murmurs, nosing into Malfoy's neck and sucking another love bite on his skin. He crooks his fingers and speeds up, searching for that elusive spot. 

Even though Malfoy rolls his hips, it's clear he didn't hit it. "Not with your fingers." Malfoy brings his knees together, and Harry withdraws. "Do it with your cock. So ready for you." He flings an arm out, snatching the lube and pressing it into Harry's hands. "Don’t keep me waiting," he whispers, lifting his leg from the bed and rubbing the inside of his ankle along Harry's thigh, shooting Harry a wink and an inviting smile.

Harry licks his lips and pours an excess amount of lube on his fingers. He remembers how turned on Malfoy was when he watched him lube up, and Harry is eager to put on a good show this time, too. He tosses the tube away and rests his heavy cock on his left palm, while he strokes himself with the coated fingers of his right hand. He tilts his body, giving Malfoy his side view as he lubes up.

"Still wanna discipline me?" Harry asks, biting back a groan at the intensity of Malfoy’s stare. 

"I'll whip out the silk ties and blindfolds next time," Malfoy replies, his voice faint. 

Harry slicks every inch, letting his wrist go limp and lube drip off his fingertips onto his prick. He whispers Malfoy's name as he touches himself, his left hand grazing the underside of his cock. A trickle of lube drips from the tip of his cock down to the bed, and he catches it on his fingers, smoothing it along his shaft. He forms a circle with his right hand and slides his cock inside, pumping his hips back and forth as he fucks his fist.

"Please," Malfoy whispers, his wide eyes fastened on Harry's prick. He’s so primed for sex, so wrecked and ready to be taken, desperate for a good and hard fuck. He lifts his hips and adjusts the pillow. "Waited for so long, Harry. Please." He reaches down, hand wrapping around his straining erection.

Harry growls and lunges forward on top of Malfoy, batting his hand away. "No one else can touch you now," he hisses, a flare of possessiveness burning within him as he lines himself up. "Only I can touch you. Only I can fuck you." 

Malfoy nods, his pupils dilated and short, shallow pants issuing from his lips. "Only you." He pouts, his features crumpling in gratification when Harry finally eases into that tight heat, the blunt head of his cock catching on his rim before slipping in easily. Malfoy scrunches an eye shut and grinds his teeth, bearing down on him when he pushes further.

Harry shifts his knees on the bed. "Get your sexy legs around me," he rasps. Malfoy obeys, wrapping his legs around Harry's waist, hooking his ankles together and resting his soles on Harry’s back. This opens him up more, and with a racing heart, Harry slides deeper into him, the drag of his cock excruciatingly slow until he's fully seated inside him. It's as brilliant as he remembered; this tight warmth consuming Harry, this overwhelming sensation reducing him to his primal instincts to thrust and fuck, to claim and control. 

"Alright?" he asks, barely getting the word out.

"Yeah," Malfoy says on an exhale. He smooths Harry's hair back fondly, a soft smile curving his lips. He trails his hands down Harry's neck, squeezing his biceps and rubbing his chest. Malfoy's scorching touch leaves heated trails all over Harry's body, and his cock hardens even more inside him. Malfoy pulls him closer and circles his hips, and Harry takes that as permission to move. He pulls out halfway before pushing back in, eliciting a harsh gasp from Malfoy. 

It feels so fucking good, and they're only getting started. 

Harry gives him a slow, lazy fuck. The sight is brilliant—this joining of their bodies, the hypnotising view of his prick sliding in and out of Malfoy. There's a mounting flush on pale skin, and Harry pushes Malfoy’s knees towards his shoulders, exposing him further. He grabs the back of Malfoy’s thighs, increasing his pace, fucking into him harder. Malfoy’s hands are gripping the sheets, straining them against the mattress, crying out Harry’s name as he takes every thrust, every hard pound. It’s good, yeah, but not good enough. Harry wants him to be completely and utterly wrecked, to go cross-eyed with ecstasy, to know that no one else can give it to him as good as Harry can. 

Harry closes the distance between them and drives his cock as deep as he can, before turning Malfoy on his side. It’s a new position, and from his experience, he knows he can go deeper at a better angle. 

He's gonna make Malfoy scream. 

Malfoy syncs himself to the change at once; he spreads his thighs, tilts his hips and pushes his bum out, letting Harry plunge into him over and over. Malfoy groans, his head flopping down on the pillow. Harry plasters his chest against Malfoy’s back, lowers his head and pulls him into a messy and desperate kiss, their breaths jagged and lips brushing together with the rhythm of Harry's hard thrusts. He fastens a hand on Malfoy’s hip, holding him steady as he fucks him. 

Malfoy growls and snakes an arm behind him, squeezing Harry's arse and urging him on. Every encouraging roll of his hips and loud slap of skin on skin ramps up Harry's arousal, and he goes faster. "Fuck, that's good. Don't stop, don't stop," Malfoy begs. He’s so warm, willing and pliable, letting Harry do anything to him. 

_He's mine. All mine._ Harry snarls, biting the side of Malfoy’s neck. He pulls out and slams hard into him, hitting his prostate. 

Malfoy _wails._

Harry's expression of determination dissolves into bliss, and he repeats it, nudging his prick on that sensitive bundle of nerves. They're rediscovering each other, that same sizzling sexual chemistry burning up the sheets, and with every hard thrust, Harry's mind is unravelling, his brain short-circuiting. The thought of stopping, of pulling out of Malfoy eventually is agonising—

"Want more," Harry hisses, shoving himself deep. "’M fuckin’ you, but still so horny. Want more." An inferno of lust bursts in his blood, white-hot and fiery pleasure building at the base of his spine. How is this even possible, how can Malfoy reinvent sex like this? 

Malfoy lets out a weak snicker. "Maybe it's 'cause you're not fucking me hard enough." 

The fire morphs into something more combative, aggressive, and Harry bares his teeth in an indignant snarl. "Not hard enough—" He withdraws and rolls Malfoy onto his stomach. Malfoy raises himself on his palms and knees, arching his back. Harry huffs and wipes sweat away from his face, hairline and chest. He catches a breath, and then positions himself behind Malfoy. "I'll show you hard enough, you demanding tosser.”

He takes him from the back, fingers digging into Malfoy's hips, greedy hands sliding up his back and grabbing onto his shoulders. The air throbs with Harry’s guttural grunts, Malfoy's frantic pleas for _more, harder, faster_, the creaks of the bedsprings and the thud of the headboard hitting the wall. Noisy sex is one of Harry’s major turn-ons, and he's out of his fucking mind with this, his world narrowing down to the absolute vision of his prick slamming in and out of Malfoy, the blooming red marks on his pale arse with all of his smacking, the feel of Malfoy clenching and relaxing around him. 

Malfoy's head hangs, blond hair grazing the pillow, and he collapses, his elbows and knees giving way until he's face down and arse up for Harry, only for Harry. He chants Harry’s name like he’s praying to a god. His blush has spread from his chest to his neck, that’s how Harry knows he’s close, so fucking close. He keeps up the punishing pace, giving it to him rough and hard, pounding him into the mattress until Malfoy’s an incoherent mess. 

“Gonna come, oh Harry, come so hard,” Malfoy bites out. “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—"

Harry pulls out.

“What, why?” Malfoy hisses in frustration and punches the pillow. 

Harry turns him on his back and moves on top of him. “Wanna see you. When you come. Your gorgeous face.” He wastes no time sliding into him again, but not before Malfoy shows his displeasure by clawing his fingernails down Harry’s back.

Harry yelps in pain, swearing. A mixture of fever-pitch arousal, desire and annoyance—something only Malfoy can trigger—rises in him, and he starts to fuck, wanting to render him speechless again. "Look at you take it. Meant to take it like this." He shoves in deep, drawing a sharp cry from Malfoy. "Take me like this." 

Malfoy smoulders up at him. "Yes, give it to me. Give it to me good." He clings onto Harry, pulling him down until Harry's face is buried in Malfoy's neck, his forehead on the pillow. "Day after you left. After you fucked me," Malfoy manages, every other word punctuated with a gasp of pleasure. "Ached the next morning. When I sat, when I walked fast." He sucks in a rattling breath, and Harry slows down until he’s buried balls-deep inside him, throbbing and still. Harry raises himself up and looks at Malfoy. 

"You were gone," he whispers, curling a hand and pressing it onto Harry's chest. Harry holds it and kisses each knuckle. "Thought I dreamt. That we fucked. But my aching body told me it was real. I want that again." Malfoy licks his lips. "Fuck me so hard 'til I can feel you tomorrow. So I know it's real." 

Harry’s heart aches with emotion. Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nods and jacks up the pace until he turns Malfoy into an absolute mess, lost in bliss. He grabs Harry everywhere, his wandering hands rubbing Harry's sweat-slicked biceps and shoulder blades, tangling his fingers in Harry's hair, touching him as if telling himself that it's real, that Harry's here, in his bed, fucking the breath out of him. Malfoy releases that tell-tale sound, a cross between a deep sob and a breathy sigh. He's close, and Harry isn’t going to deny him this time. 

"Real. Not leaving tonight," Harry promises, his body tensing. "Or tomorrow morning. Draco." 

At the sound of his name, Malfoy lifts dazed eyes from Harry’s chest, staring deep into green eyes. 

"You're gonna have this for the rest of your life," Harry rasps. 

Another hard thrust, his cock grinding against Malfoy's prostate, and Malfoy falls apart underneath him. He comes, shooting all over his own stomach, the force of his orgasm so strong that some of it spurts up to his collarbones. Harry fucks him through it, going even faster, desperately chasing his own climax. 

"Harry, so good," Malfoy says around a dreamy sigh, squeezing Harry's bicep. "Come for me. Fill me up. Fill me with your cock, your come." He drags his tongue across his upper lip, his eyes sultry and seductive. Fuck, that's so hot, his blowjobs are so hot, Malfoy is so hot—

His touch, that face, that voice… Malfoy is the fingerprint that unlocks the floodgates of Harry's pleasure, because that's all he needs. Malfoy is the drug his body so intensely craves, this warmth of carnal bliss and desire shuddering through him starts and ends with Malfoy— 

Harry throws his head back, his stomach and arms clenching, the tendons on his neck tensing as he shouts Malfoy's name, his voice strained as Malfoy clenches hard around him, pulling him over the edge. Ecstasy, so potent that it feels like an apocalyptic magic thrumming in every cell, bursts like fireworks as he comes so hard inside Malfoy.

His orgasm is so mind-blowing and earth-shattering that he remains stock-still for a moment, his wide eyes gazing at a very pleased Malfoy. "You look so good when you come," Malfoy purrs, lifting a hand to slick away the sweat on Harry's face. 

Harry doesn’t have the presence of mind to cobble together an answer, leftover lust rampaging through him. With a heaving chest, he pulls out, groaning at the sight of his come trickling out of Malfoy and dripping on the sheets. He collapses beside Malfoy, who reaches for the towel to clean himself. 

They lay still and silent, eyes turned towards the ceiling. Harry’s other senses click back into place, his world expanding beyond Malfoy. There's the occasional honk of traffic outside and a dog howling. A night breeze wafts from the windows, cooling the sweat on his skin. The scent of sex and vanilla hangs in the air, and Harry slowly wraps his mind around the fact that he just slept with Malfoy, four years later, and it’s even better than their first time. Harry touches Malfoy’s hand, turning to look at him when Malfoy laces their fingers together. 

"You've learnt some new moves," Malfoy remarks. His chest and neck still bear the remnants of his full-blown body blush, and Harry knows it’ll take some time for it to fade.

Harry releases a tired laugh. When Malfoy presses a kiss on the back of his hand, his heart somersaults at the affectionate gesture. 

"Shower?" Malfoy whispers. At Harry's nod, he gets out of bed, wincing. Harry follows him to the bathroom. They indulge in a soapy shower with lingering, tender touches. Malfoy pushes him against the glass, resting his palms on either side of Harry's head and drags him into a long, heady kiss. Water sluices down their bodies, and they snog for a while with Harry's arms wrapped around Malfoy's neck and Malfoy's hands resting on his hips.

Eventually, they emerge and dry themselves off with towels and Hair-Drying Charms. Malfoy tidies the sheets and they tumble back into bed, wearing only their pants. They face each other, tracking the changes on their bodies, the silence loaded and delicate. 

There's still the Sectumsempra scar across Malfoy's chest and the stain of his Dark Mark. He's gained a bit of weight, going by the slight swell of his stomach, and there's a small crescent-shaped scar on the inside of his left wrist. Harry points at it and peers at Malfoy. 

"Potions experiment gone wrong," he offers. Malfoy indicates a jagged, raised scar on Harry's shoulder, extending to the top of his chest. 

"Melbourne," Harry says. 

Another beat of silence. 

"I lied that night," Malfoy murmurs. "At the Room of Requirement. When I said the sex didn't change anything." He touches Harry's cheek. "It changed everything." 

"I know." Even though Harry knew that Malfoy was lying from the start, something hard and bitter untangles within him, easing at those words. 

"I'll still be here tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere this time," Harry says. 

"I know," Malfoy says, mirroring Harry's words. 

Harry smiles, and Malfoy echoes his smile. 

He caresses Harry's dimple with a thumb. "Your dimples should be illegal," he says fondly. 

And just for him, Harry widens his grin, happiness blossoming in his heart.

* * *

Harry wakes up with aching shoulders and thighs, along with a strange soreness on his back. 

He sighs and nuzzles his pillow, before realising that the texture of the sheets is all wrong. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly. 

This isn't his room. 

Memories from last night filter back into his consciousness, a tapestry of pornographic images and Malfoy's heavenly sounds looping in his mind. He flings an arm out; he’s alone in bed. Harry rolls over and flops his face into Malfoy’s pillow, breathing in the scent of vanilla, just to make sure that this isn't a dream, that he's really in Malfoy's bed after having shagged him silly. 

There's a clattering sound from another part of the house, and Harry sits up, the duvet falling to his hips. He sniffs, catching a mouth-watering whiff of bacon and tilts his head towards the kitchen at the sound of eggs sizzling on a hot pan. His stomach growls. Malfoy gave him the best sex of his life, and he's even cooking him breakfast? 

Harry scrambles out of bed and glances at the nightstand—there's a toothbrush and a green and white T-shirt. He unfolds the shirt, shaking his head in exasperation at the Slytherin T-shirt Malfoy left for him. He stretches, his back aching with the motion. He goes over to the mirror, his eyes widening at the thin red scratches raked along his back. He bites his lip at the memory of Malfoy moving beneath him, moaning his name and sinking his fingernails into his skin. He wears Malfoy’s Slytherin shirt, picks up his jeans and heads to the loo. 

After that, he pads to the kitchen, his heart flipping like a pancake at the sight of Malfoy at the stove, cooking breakfast in a baggy T-shirt and joggers. Harry scratches his neck and leans against the doorjamb, soaking in the domesticity of the scene. He's never seen Malfoy like this before. Malfoy's making him breakfast after a night together, and he's wearing Malfoy’s shirt. 

_You could have this for the rest of your life._

"Are you going to help, or do you plan on simply letting me do all the work?" Malfoy says, adding more bacon to the pan. He glances at Harry, smirking at the Slytherin shirt. "Plates are over there, and there's milk and juice. Or would you prefer tea?" 

Harry laughs. "Good morning to you, too. Tea's great." He walks into the kitchen, hovering beside Malfoy for a moment. He's tempted to hug him from the back, but he vaguely remembers that they haven't really had a proper talk. Still, he's glad that it's not awkward the morning after. 

"Would you like some suga with your tea?" Malfoy asks, when Harry is setting the table. 

"One cube, no milk." 

Malfoy plates up. Harry tucks into his food with gusto. Breakfast passes by fairly uneventfully and quickly, because they know they have to address the nature of their relationship. Malfoy wraps up breakfast by draining his glass of orange juice and indicating the sofa. Harry follows him there, his mind taking a dirty turn when he recalls this was where Malfoy sucked him off last night. He chases that memory away, because this is important, going by the uncertainty on Malfoy's features. 

Malfoy hugs a cushion to his chest. "In Lisbon, you said you can't change how you… you love me. So how do you love me?" He pauses and looks down at the loose fibres of the cushion, his voice small. "You barely know me." 

Out of all the things he could've said, Harry was not expecting this. Thrown off-course, Harry skips confusion and sails straight into indignation. He splutters, "What? What d'you mean I don't know you? I've known you since we were eleven!" He pulls up a spool of memories, starting from the most recent. "I know how you look like when you come, I know your blush and the exact sounds you make when you're close. I know where you're sensitive, what to do and how to do it to give you the most pleasure!" 

Harry drops his hands into his lap. He remembers Malfoy’s wan and distressed expression during that fateful day in the bathroom. "I know your part in the war, and you know mine too." He shakes his head, not wanting to delve deeper. "I don't understand what you mean by that." 

"Listen to yourself," Malfoy says, leaning forward. "You know the major events of my life, and after that it was just sex—" He raises a hand, silencing Harry, who was close to rebutting. "Sex, and our messy history. That's all we've shared. Is it enough to sustain a relationship? Enough to know that we can be together long-term?"

Harry frowns, looking mulish. "I know. From here," he insists, pressing the heel of his palm on his chest. 

Malfoy sighs. "I feel similarly, too. It's just…" He puts the cushion down and rubs his face, shoulders slumped. "We did things the wrong way around. Couples usually start out as acquaintances, friends, experience a lengthy courtship before getting together and then becoming intimate. Merlin, I only learnt today that you take your tea with a cube of sugar and no milk." 

"Well, it's us," Harry points out, as if that answers everything. 

"That's why I could marry Astoria, even though we both know I prefer men," Malfoy says. "I could imagine building a life and a home with her. We know each other's habits and quirks. She was very suitable for me, and we got along well together, with similar understandings of the expectations set upon us." Harry's jealousy must've shown, for Malfoy takes his hand. "What do I do in my job?" 

Harry blinks at the sudden question. “Potions. Research. Mixing things in cauldrons and…" He recalls Seamus setting things on fire during Potions lessons. "Explosions," he blurts out, freeing his hand from Malfoy to clench his own hands and splay his fingers out in a visual display of an explosion. "Boom boom."

Malfoy gives him a flat look. "Explosions. Really, Potter?" 

"Sorry," Harry says, sheepish. He quickly grabs Malfoy's hand and squeezes. What follows next is a series of rapid-fire questions, with Malfoy getting increasingly exasperated and Harry becoming increasingly confused. 

"What do I like to do when I'm on vacation, Potter?" 

"Indoor stuff? Museums, fancy cafés, things like that?" 

"No. I like hiking. I like being out in nature." 

"What? Out in the sun? You grumbled like hell whenever we went for Care of Magical Creatures!" 

"That was ages ago. Never mind. What's my favourite dish to cook?" 

"You cook?!" 

"… Alright, moving on. What's my favourite tea, and how do I like it?" 

"Er. Earl Grey, with… with no milk and two sugar cubes." 

"Wrong. What's my favourite colour?" 

"Green."

"Wrong! Slytherins don't have green as their default favourite colour, you pillock. How do I deal with conflict? What should you do when we're fighting?"

"… Kiss you?" 

"No. What's the best way to make me feel better when I've had a rough day at work?" 

"… Blow you?" 

"No!" 

"Come on!" Harry protests, throwing his hands up. 

"Do you see what I mean?" Malfoy says, running his hand through his hair. "There's so much we don’t know about each other. I don't even know your designation in the Ministry. I know you're in the DMLE, and you…" He waves a hand vaguely in the air. "You teach trainees. Defence magic, along with other things. How can we be so confident about each other when our knowledge is so limited?" 

Harry casts his mind to Ron and Hermione. He's never really thought about it, but Ron always knows what to order for Hermione—regardless of her cravings and mood—if she's nipped off to the loo when the waiter arrives. Similarly, Hermione knows what to say to calm Ron down, and Ron knows what to buy for her at the florist, while Harry doesn't even know about Malfoy's favourite flower—

Wait, does Malfoy even like flowers? 

"Do you like flowers?" Harry blurts out. 

Malfoy stares at him as if he'd gone mad. "Flowers?" he repeats in astonishment. "How is that relevant to our discussion?" At Harry's insistence, he relents. "I like roses. Not the red ones, they're too common and flashy. I like subtle colours. Lavender, light blue, for example." 

Harry nods, planning to pay a visit to the florist near Ron and Hermione's place. "Okay. Got that." 

Malfoy folds his arms across his chest, looking highly unamused. "You're going to buy me flowers, aren't you?"

"No," Harry lies. 

He's gonna buy Malfoy the biggest and the most extravagant bouquet of roses tomorrow, so fancy and impressive that it'll put all other rose bouquets to shame. 

"Yeah, I understand," Harry says, eager to change the subject. "We've never had a conversation like this without fighting or snogging, so I get what you mean."

"Are you finished with travelling, then? You're always haring off to the next adventure, the next exotic locale," Malfoy says.

"I…" Harry trails off, thinking about the stares, whispers and increased scrutiny he'll have to endure back in Britain. But he gazes at Malfoy, and he knows with a startling clarity that he can’t bear to be apart from him. "I told Kingsley to transfer me permanently back to the London Ministry until further notice. There'll still be travelling, but just a couple of days here and there, two weeks at the most."

"Seems like a huge sacrifice." 

"Yeah." Harry nods. "But it's worth it. For you.” Malfoy looks down, trying to hide the smile spreading across his face, and Harry continues. “Plus you’ve had to sacrifice too," he says, thinking of Lucius Malfoy's fury and the scandal splashed over the papers. "I love travelling, exploring new places and cultures. But it'd mean so much more if you’re with me. We could do it for leisure. I could show you the world. Places like Hawaii, Malta, New Zealand," he says hopefully. 

"Reminds me of Astoria. What you just said about showing me the world. She loves Disney. Aladdin, if I'm not wrong." Malfoy’s smile dims when Harry frowns. "This is what I meant when I said I need time. I just got out of a long-term relationship. Let's take the time to know each other better, see where that takes us." He tugs Harry closer and leans back on the sofa. Harry leans on Malfoy’s chest, making a happy sound when Malfoy hugs him tight.

"Travelling for leisure sounds wonderful. Permanent relocation, however…" Malfoy rests his chin on top of Harry's head. "I have to stay here because of my parents, and this will never change as long as they're still around. But when it’s years into the future, when there's nothing rooting me to Britain, I wouldn't mind going away with you. I am not tied down by my career." 

"Okay." 

There's a long silence as they simply enjoy each other's company, and Harry relaxes completely in Malfoy's arms.

"Hey." Malfoy gives him a little shake, and Harry tilts his head up, peering at him. "What would you like to do on a date?" 

“First, I'd like the bloke that I'm going out with to call me by my first name. Merlin knows you've moaned it enough during sex." 

Malfoy laughs, a lovely, bright sound that makes Harry warm all over. "Only if you return the favour, Harry." 

Harry goes even warmer. 

And then Malfoy asks a question, the exact question that Harry so desperately wanted him to, all those years ago in the Room of Requirement when Harry had his hand on the doorknob with his heart breaking and Malfoy looking so lost, that question that Harry thought he'd never have the privilege to answer—

"Stay, won't you?" Malfoy asks, voice thick with emotion. He kisses the top of Harry's head. "Stay with me?"

And just like that, the tight knot in Harry's heart eases. 

Harry nods, overwhelmed with emotion.

_I'll stay for as long as you'll have me._

* * *

_Cabo da Roca, Portugal_

They're at the westernmost point of mainland Europe. It's evening, late enough for the hordes of tourists to have left, but not too late for Harry and Draco to enjoy the scenery. The frothy waves of the North Atlantic Ocean churn and surge against the cliffs, and Harry sighs at the breath-taking view of ocean and sky.

Harry slouches a bit so Draco can rest his chin on his head. Draco hums appreciatively at the panoramic scenery and holds him tighter. Harry is standing in front of him, nestled in the protective circle of Draco’s arms. 

They've been together for six months and counting, and Harry's never been happier. He can now answer with confidence all of the questions that Draco shot at him months ago. 

Draco's specialisation is medicinal potions, and he's currently working on an improved version of the Star Grass Salve. He certainly likes hiking and being out in nature during his travels, because nature is a source of inspiration for his work. He's a creature of routine except on holiday, and Harry loves introducing him to new cuisines and activities.

Draco is a more than decent cook, while Harry isn't, because he didn't see the point, having spent the past few years hopping from hotel to rented flat. Draco's favourite dish to cook is carbonara, but he learnt how to make a mean curry simply because Harry likes it. Draco loves English breakfast tea, served piping hot with a splash of milk and no sugar, and his favourite colour is red.

_"It's red. That took you like what, six guesses, and no, liking red doesn't mean that I’m a Gryffindor at heart. Not a big fan of green, although I'm starting to like green the exact shade of your eyes… See what you've done to me, Harry, you've turned me into a hopeless romantic."_

Draco deals with conflict very differently from Harry, which led to dreadful fights at the beginning. Draco would refuse to engage with a furious Harry, choosing to lock himself away until they were both calm. Harry mistook it as him avoiding the issue, and it took some time for him to realise that that wasn't the case—it was because Draco didn't want them to say things in the heat of the moment. _"You can't take back words, Harry, no matter how angry you were when you said them! You can't apologise the day after and say you didn't mean it because we both know that you did!"_

When Draco has a rough day at work, Harry makes a strong mug of tea for him and leaves him alone for a while. Then he'll ask him if he'd like to talk about it. If he does, Harry will listen as he rants. If not, Harry will give him space and just be around, whether he wants cuddles and kisses or someone to watch the telly with. The next day, Harry will turn up at his workplace, bearing a bag of his favourite chocolates and a reservation to a nice dinner place.

The smile on Draco's face will be blinding, electric, and Harry will fall for him all over again.

"We're having dinner with my parents next weekend," Draco reminds him. 

That plucks Harry from the clouds, sending him crashing into reality. 

"Yeah, I know. First dinner with them," he says, sighing. He knows how much this means to Draco, but the thought of sitting with Lucius Malfoy at the long dinner table in the Manor is enough to put him off his food. Narcissa Malfoy seems to be alright; he's run into her a few times at Draco's London home, and they were perfectly civil. 

"Father's mellowed out quite a bit after his heart attack," Draco says. "Besides, I suggested having the dinner outside, away from the Manor. I’m certain that would make it more comfortable." 

Harry turns around in Draco's arms to face him. "Yeah. That… that would be great," he says, touched at Draco's thoughtfulness. He grins suddenly. "Besides, it's the Burrow next month for you, yeah?" 

The minute Draco told him about Narcissa's request for dinner, Harry followed up with an invitation to Sunday lunch at the Burrow. It wasn't something out of the blue, Molly and Arthur did extend an invitation to Draco before, but Harry declined, saying it wasn't time yet. 

"Yes, I am well aware," Draco replies, heaving a sigh identical to Harry's. "There's just so many of them," he says. "And the history between our families…" 

"Hey, Ron and Hermione will be there, and Molly and Arthur are brilliant." 

"And everyone else?" Draco asks, arching a brow. 

"Er. We'll worry about that when the day comes." 

"The things I do for you…" Draco says, releasing a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. Harry beams, his gaze falling to Draco’s lips. Grey eyes dart around them—Draco's usually wary of kissing in public—but it's fairly quiet, except for a few other couples and a family in the distance.

The kiss is tender and delicate, sending Harry’s heart beating faster. They pull apart with a soft sound, and Harry eyes the other man up. Draco is wearing his favourite get-up of all time: tight black T-shirt, those sexy navy-blue jeans and Converse trainers, looking exactly like his walking wet dream from eighth year. He dug out his leather bracelets and earrings from eighth year too, and the entire ensemble is enough to get Harry's blood pumping. 

A surge of affection wells up in Harry. "I love you." 

It's not the first time he’s saying it to Draco, and it certainly won't be the last. 

Draco hasn’t said it back to him yet, but it's okay. It's okay, because one day, he will, and the grin on Harry's face will be as dazzling as the one that Draco wears whenever Harry says it. 

"You make me want to fall in love," Draco murmurs, kissing his forehead. 

Harry goes warm with happiness. _Love me, Draco. Love me like how I love you._

Suddenly, Astoria Greengrass’ words echo in Harry’s head—_"And if I can't give Draco his happiness, then I'd rather let him go. Let someone else love him, so that he can feel this all-consuming love."_

Harry turns around to face the ocean, and Draco hugs him from the back. 

The shadows stretch across the ground, and a gentle breeze coasts over them, rustling their hair. The tempo of the crashing waves is constant and comforting, as reliable as the ticking of the clock, the passing of time. And Harry is lucky, so lucky to be with his special someone right here, at this peaceful place far, far away from everyone else. 

It's as if the world has stopped breathing and there's no one else in existence. No one at all, except for Draco and him. 

Harry still has his wanderlust from time to time, especially when his colleagues return from new and exciting places. He'll think back to the times when he drifted from country to country, living out of his suitcase and exploring places that he never would've dreamed of going.

But that was before Draco became his world. 

Draco is where Harry's heart is, where he wants to come back to when things get hard and when he feels lonely. Draco played a part in pushing Harry away from Britain, but he is also the one who brought him back. Harry can go to the corners of the earth—almost did, in fact—searching for someone that makes him feel so alive, so loved, cherished and cared for, but he'll never find anyone like Draco. 

Harry rests his left hand on the railing in front of him, and Draco shifts, placing his own hand on top of Harry's. Maybe it's not too mad to imagine a red thread, smooth and untangled, looping snugly around their last fingers and trailing back to their hearts. 

That red thread that ties Harry’s past to his present and his future, leading him back home. 

Home, to Draco.

* * *

**/fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All songs listed here belong to their respective owners.
> 
> Scene 1 “Harry roots”: HOME  
Scene 2 “Fuck, it's”: V - Singularity  
Scene 3 “Harry wakes”: RM - Trivia: Love  
Scene 4 “Cabo da Roca”: Jungkook - Euphoria (Piano Version)
> 
> This was an absolute joyride to write, and I hope you found it equally exhilarating to read. After Reveals, I will post the answers to the 13 BTS-related Easter eggs as a comment on Chapter 3. If you were playing along, do see if you caught them all!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


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